Pings of the Heart
by Magi Silverwolf
Summary: Lily knew things that others didn't. She paid attention where others didn't. Is it any surprise that she knew about artifacts and knew how to use them? Too bad it was Harry who ended up paying the price of its use.
1. Apples

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. This particular piece includes non-graphic details of severe child abuse. A few of the things which are heavily implied could even be classified as torture, even if used against an adult. There is also the contemplation of suicide, including the development of a plan and the gathering of supplies. The suicidal person is chronologically a child, which is often even more disturbing to people despite how not _un_ common such a situation is.

 **Crossover Information:** This story crosses over aspects from the _Harry Potter_ series by J.K. Rowling and the television series _Warehouse 13_. There may be minor mentions of related canons of either series and possible other similar canons. So far there are no plot points drawn from anything _except_ the _Harry Potter_ books and the episodes of _Warehouse 13_.

 **Timeline Clarification:** the _Harry Potter_ timeline has been moved so that Harry was born in 2000. The Marauder Era moves to match that change while the First Blood War expands to fill the intervening time with Tom M. Riddle being born in the same year that he had been. Most of the alterations to interactions and personalities among the wizarding characters can be traced back to one of those changes to the timeline. Very little of that is relevant to _Apples_ , but will become more so in future pieces.

 **Author's Note:** The first portion of the first section is going to be the major stumbling block to the emotions. If it helps any, the description (such as it is) of the abuse is limited to one paragraph, the second one that starts with "the necklace". It may help even more to know going in that this _particular_ mission turns out to not be a "snag  & bag" so much as a "snag". In fact, the Warehouse staff may not realize that the necklace is significant at all (Artie definitely doesn't) by the end of this.

 **Series Note(s):** This is going to be a series of connected one-shots. If you are reading this on FFN, this means that while this story is listed as _complete_ , it will periodically update. Each part will build upon each other, but whatever the individual plot for that part will not be carried over as a chapter's build would.

 **Summary (** _ **Apples**_ **):** This is how Harry Potter came to belong to the Warehouse. It was like a puzzle piece finally sliding home.

 **Song Recommendation(s):** "Shake It Out (Acoustic Version)" by Florence + the Machine; "Eleanor Rigby" by The Beatles; "Sanctuary" by Paradise Fears

-= LP =-

Pings of the Heart

Part 01: Apples

-= LP =-

"No temptation can gravitate to a man unless there is that in his heart which is capable of responding to it." – James Allen

-= LP =-

As long as Harry had been aware, the dreams had been with him. Through everything that the Dursleys had done, the dreams were a comfort. He never remembered much of them—which was odd since he had a very good memory otherwise. What he could remember was mostly feelings and colors. He remembered hair the same shade of red as the sunset right before it faded into the purple of twilight and as soft as silk in his tiny hand. He could remember eyes the same dark green as his own but full of stars. He could remember the warm feel of arms around him and the smell of Lily of the Valley. He could remember the cool touch of metal against his skin before a flare of fire ran through it.

He was certain that last memory was when he received the necklace. The Dursleys hated the necklace. He could remember every attempt they had made to remove it over the years. Despite the box clasp, the necklace could not be removed, but the Dursleys were persistent, Aunt Petunia especially. The necklace was on a delicate silver chain which remained (even as Harry grew) just long enough for the tiny pendant to sit at the hollow of his throat. The pendant was equally simple—just a silver disk with a triskel in relief on it. At the point where the three legs met sat a tiny clear stone. He didn't think it was a diamond, as Uncle Vernon had said early on when he attempted to just pry the stone free rather than remove the necklace altogether. He also didn't think it was simply glass as Aunt Petunia told everyone who dared ask about it.

The necklace protected him. He didn't know how exactly and since his family considered asking questions forbidden and punishable, he had a lack of answers from others. Since he couldn't ask questions, Harry had become very adept at getting information in other ways, such as observation of patterns. Unfortunately, the protections of the necklace had been tested enough for him to be able to draw a lot of conclusions about its abilities.

The necklace dampened any impact which would have otherwise done serious damage, but it didn't stop any pain which would have been caused. Fire and hot temperatures would likewise not burn him (and just gave him an intense _need_ to be moving), but the sun still could. Acid and similar chemicals likewise didn't actually harm him, but they left his exposed skin hypersensitive so that even the air felt rough. Things could cut him but they had to be made of only one substance. Thankfully, he found that out away from the Dursleys because they didn't need to know that all they had to do was make a stake and Uncle Vernon's stabbing attempts would be more successful. Poisons would come out of his eyes in hideous lime green tears that burned worse than his arm being held against the cooker. Finding _that_ out had made him leery about accepting any "special treats" from Aunt Petunia. He also knew that he couldn't drown but coughing up whatever substance had filled his lungs hurt far more than crying the poison-tears did. Harry _was_ thankful that the Dursleys were not especially creative in their attempts to remove their problem, either by getting the necklace off or by successfully killing Harry, and even less prone to repeated experiments in the area.

By the time that he had started primary school, Harry already knew that no one was going to stop the Dursleys and every attempt to seek help would just mean more of their experiments with what his body could tolerate. Each time he asked for help from one of the neighbors, the Dursleys were quick to point out his lack of bruises and scars, painting Harry as a lying reprobate intent on sullying their good name. Each time he ran away, the men in the old-fashioned robes would find him and take him back. For every one of these incidents, Aunt Petunia made sure that Harry paid for the embarrassment, usually in some horribly painful way. In the end, it was better to just put up with whatever they wanted to do, than to do anything which would upset them. It didn't matter if he slept in a cupboard under the stairs or had to do all the chores to Aunt Petunia's expectations of perfection. It didn't matter if sometimes food and even water was withheld. He knew that the Dursleys hated him and wished him dead. Harry knew that whatever power the necklace held would prevent his death, but just as it didn't stop him from feeling pain, it couldn't protect him the pain of knowing that he was not worth the same protective consideration as other _normal_ children.

After coming to the realization that nothing he did would ever make his _beloved family_ care for him, watching their familial affection and traditions from the outside began to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. It filled him a longing to find his own family, people who would love him and hold him when he was scared and indulge his flights of fancy. He would do anything, _anything_ , to prove to them that he was worth their care. If only he could find someone willing to love a _freak_ like him, Harry would gladly take care of them the same ways the Dursleys demanded. He would do everything perfectly—even abandon the freakish tricks he had discovered and had started using to help with his chores, if they demanded it. He would do _anything_ for someone to even just _not_ treat him like the Dursleys did, anything at all—and after Aunt Petunia's rules and punishments, Harry was certain that _nothing_ would be too much to handle. There had to be _someone_ out there, right? And someday, hopefully, they would take him away from Privet Drive and he would _never_ have to come back.

But no one came, and Harry remained at the Dursleys, watching as the other children were loved and doted upon and praised. He was stuck on the outside of all he ever wanted and as his eighth birthday passed unremarked, he resigned himself to it lasting forever. He thought about how death would be an escape, a final way of sticking it to the Dursleys who hated him, and the world which ignored his pain. He had secreted away a small ceramic knife stolen from Mrs. Figg's when she wasn't looking. He had tested it, and it cut—and wasn't it fitting that a Potter should die by hardened and shaped clay? What stopped him every single time he thought about it was uncertainty over what would happen with his mother's necklace if he died. As much as he wanted free of the Dursleys, he didn't want the necklace which offered him such double-edged protection in their control.

As Harry started Year 4, he noticed another pattern that had begun. The same man kept showing up around places where the kids gathered. Harry had already sat through three years of warnings about the dangers of strangers who watched kids and this guy had a lot of the things his teachers said were signs. Despite this, Harry didn't bring the man's lurking to anyone's attention. The man amused Harry with his stomping about and mumbling to himself. It was also clear that whatever he was looking for was not a kid to do whatever the teachers thought was so horrible—not that Harry really believed that the teachers cared about _all_ of their students anyway, but that was a completely different matter. Harry didn't think the man was a threat. The scary lady who showed to scold him probably was, but Harry had a good feeling about the man. So one day, he calculated that he could risk talking to the weird pseudo-stalker.

"I like brown," Harry announced as he settled at the base of the tree that the man had been pacing besides as he talked into the strange phone in his hand. Harry had been careful in how he approached, being sure to keep well out of sight of not only the man but his aunt and cousin as well. So he wasn't surprised when the man jumped and spun to face him. The weird phone barely made a sound as it dropped onto the moss-covered ground. Harry noticed that the woman displayed by the tiny screen was not the same person as the scary lady before the man snatched up the device and snapped it shut.

"Where—I mean, what are you talking about? What's this about brown?"

"I like your brown coat better than this black one," Harry replied. The man just blinked at him in confusion. His eyebrows did a furrowing thing similar to what Uncle Vernon's did whenever he was thinking hard. Maybe it was the glasses but Harry didn't think that this guy was going to have as difficult a time as his uncle and cousin typically did. That did not mean that Harry wanted the man to have enough time to think about how annoying Harry was being. "Not that this coat is terrible—it's just… you look nicer in a medium brown. Do you normally pack so many coats on your trips? You've worn three different ones since I first saw you last week—and yet you always carry the same bag. It's a nice bag. I mean, it would have to be, wouldn't it? You change coats depending on weather and mood, but it's always the same bag."

"You notice a lot, don't you? Are you usually this nosy?" The man sounded like he was annoyed, but there was a pitch to the grumble that fed Harry's good feeling about him. Thus instead of backing down like he would have if Uncle Vernon had used the same tone, Harry just decided to keep talking. If nothing else, it was nice to be able to talk to someone else for once.

"Do you normally watch children so obsessively? The teachers have a lot to say about old men who stare at children for hours, you know. If you needed someone to watch them, it may have been better for the scary lady to be the watcher. It would probably attract less attention."

"Scary lady…? Oh, you mean—no, Mrs. Fredric doesn't—why aren't you playing with the other children, anyway? Don't you have some sandcastle to destroy like that boy?" The man waved his hand in the direction of the park's sandbox. Harry didn't have to look to know that the boy currently doing the destroying was Dudley. He could tell from the way the builder was loudly protesting rather than attempting to defend the structure that it had to be. All the kids who frequented the park knew not to try fighting Dudley because he would run crying to his mother about how mean the other children were being and then later would corner whoever dared to stand up to him with his friends. Four on one was _never_ fair.

"Dudley's _mean_ ," Harry volunteered as he wrinkled his nose. He tilted his head as he examined the man who was doing the same to him. On a whim, Harry gave him a cat blink. There was no way that he could contain his grin when the man returned the gesture. Though he was confused, the man gave Harry a crooked grin. "I like you, even in the black coat that makes you look like a Soviet spy. I'm Harry."

"I'm Artie," he said as he nervously smoothed his coat. Harry nodded and jumped up to his feet. The sudden movement startled Artie into taking a step backwards as if Harry was some kind of dangerous beast. It shouldn't have, but the idea that he had scared the not-creepy man hurt Harry's heart. Something must have shown on his face because Artie immediately held out his hand and retook the step. "No, don't—I'm just used to sudden movements being bad things. You don't have to get upset."

"I'm not going to cry." Harry crossed his arms, determined to be stubborn. Ever since the poisoned cupcake from Aunt Petunia, even normal crying hurt a lot. Besides, crying was for babies and Dudley, not _freaks_. "I'm not stupid, you know. It's obvious that you see a lot of danger. I shouldn't have gotten up so fast. Can I have one of your apples?"

"Obvious—wait, I don't have any apples." Artie patted his pockets as if he was double-checking that he didn't have any apples, like one would have just shown up in his coat pockets without him noticing. Harry moved closer to him, carefully making sure to move slowly so that Artie would see him. Then he crouched beside Artie's bag. He had it opened before Artie could reach down to stop him, revealing the shiny red apples it contained. Harry looked up at Artie's surprised face.

"So the bag _is_ magical," Harry declared as he plucked out one of the fruits. As if to prove his point, Harry closed the bag before reopening it one handed. This time the bag was empty. Harry snapped it shut again. He shifted to sitting, cradling his stolen apple. The apple had the same tingle to it that some of the items at Mrs. Figg's had and Harry wanted to keep it, if only for a little longer before giving it back. "How about you tell me what you are looking for, Mr. Artie, and then I help you find it? Does that work for you?"

"No, that _does not_ work for me," Artie denied grumpily. He yanked the black doctor's bag away as if worried that Harry was going to harm it in some way. Despite being used to people doing that, Harry felt his shoulders slump as defeat washed over him. He had just wanted to help, and he had thought that Artie was going to be _different_ —he certainly felt different that other adults. It was okay, though, because it wasn't like it mattered anyway. In the end, Harry wasn't like normal people, and he needed to remember that. Artie huffed, bringing Harry's attention back to him. "You're a child, and what I am looking for could be—probably is—dangerous. You could get hurt."

"So what?"

"So what? So _what_?" Artie scowled at him as he towered above Harry. Now he was starting to get intimidatingly similar to Uncle Vernon working himself into a rage. Harry made himself ready to curl into a ball, in case Artie was as prone to kicking as Uncle Vernon was. Both men carried a lot of weight around their middles, so it would be logical. Above him, Artie continued to sputter the flippant phrase in irritation and outrage. "What I'm looking for could _kill you_! Do you know what that means?!"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, carefully modifying his tone to the one which worked best to mollify his relatives. Equally carefully, Harry lowered his gaze so that he had to look at the man through his eyelashes. While he knew better than to completely look away, Uncle Vernon liked it when Harry looked cowed when he got this annoyed. Maybe if he apologized, Artie would let him slip away before the agitation drew Aunt Petunia's attention? "I'm sorry, sir. I'll—"

"BOY!"

' _Too late.'_ Harry let his eyes fall completely shut as he let the knowledge of what was most likely to come wash over him. His hands tightened around the tingly apple. He couldn't keep it, he realized. Even if he stashed in it in his shirt or pocket, it would either be damaged by his punishment or discovered during it and confiscated. It tingled like his necklace did, and as he didn't know what it did, he couldn't risk the Dursleys getting it. He may not want to, but he had to give it back to Artie. Every second he delayed doing so put it in danger because Aunt Petunia was on her way over to them.

"Um, take your apple back," Harry said before tossing the fruit to the cranky man, "and don't follow." Then Harry ran to intercept Aunt Petunia before she could reach Artie. Even angry at Harry, Artie didn't seem to actively dislike him yet. Harry would like to keep it that way for as long as possible before the inevitable attitude that pervaded Little Whinging managed to infect the grumbly man and that meant stopping Aunt Petunia from interacting with him. Besides, it wasn't like Artie was going to be sticking around much longer anyway, so there wasn't any point in getting attached.

-= LP =-

"I am telling you that the kid needs some kind of intervention," Artie argued for what felt like the thousandth time. Mrs. Fredric just stared at him as stoically as ever. He scrubbed a hand over his face. A child shrieked somewhere in the playground and Artie winced at the shrillness. Kids were the same everywhere, it seemed.

This past week had been hell, almost literally. Little Whinging and the Stepford neighborhood were eerily similar in their bland sameness, but beyond that he couldn't find any reason to suspect a ping at all. It was so _normal_ here and if it weren't for the insistence that every device connected with the Warehouse, Artie would have gladly left England behind two days after arriving. But every detection device connect with the Warehouse was insisting that there was an artifact here, one that kept moving around to various sections of the little burg, mostly centering on the park and the school.

The only bit of strangeness about the whole place had been the boy. He saw too much, noticing even the smallest details. He also was able to work the case, even though it was notorious glitchy and prone to becoming jinxed. Yet the boy had just opened it and it held exactly what the boy had indicated it would. Artie was good at finding things—objects or information or people, it didn't make any difference to him. He didn't know how exactly Harry was connected to the ping that had brought him to the bland capital of Surrey, but Artie was certain that he was connected.

It didn't help his feeling of helpless frustration that towards the end there, the kid had seemed terrified, a bit of him but far more the lady who had called him over. Artie had seen the mental calculation going on before Harry had tossed the apple—not just any apple, but a Warehouse apple, something that even the Warehouse's favorites rarely get more than a whiff of and Harry had opened the bag to reveal it stuffed with them. So Artie was left with only two certainties: 1) Harry needed help; and 2) the Warehouse wanted Harry.

"He opened the bag," Artie tried again, taking a different track. He couldn't convince Mrs. Fredric to help because it was the right thing to do, but the Warehouse always came first to its Caretaker. Artie had a feeling in his gut that even a quick check in to establish the possibility for a future agent would give enough reason for the intervention. If nothing else, Artie was good at finding things—he'd _find_ what was wrong in Harry's life, why the Warehouse wanted the boy who was too smart for his apparent age. Mrs. Fredric looked even less impressed by this argument than she had the excuse of just a gut feeling. Artie heaved a sigh. "It was full of apples, every single one of them golden and pink. He took one out before closing the bag and it _stayed_ after he closed the bag and opened it again."

"Where is this apple now, Mr. Nielsen?"

"Harry gave it to me before he left, but, uh, it faded shortly after he was gone." That had been really frustrating. Artie had given thirty-five years to the Warehouse, more than half his life. He had lost friends and family, the chance to raise his son. Yet he had never even smelled the apples before today when Harry effortlessly summoned a bagful of them. For five minutes, Artie had held one of the legendary apples in his hands, watching as the Warehouse faded it away back to wherever it had come. Thirty-five years of service, but a kid messing around earned an apple, not him. It wasn't _fair_.

"Interesting," Mrs. Fredric commented. Artie couldn't really tell but he thought that he may finally be making headway. "Do you have an address for the boy?"

"Number 4 Privet Drive," Artie replied. He left out how he had already slipped into the perfect little house and there had been no real evidence that a second boy lived there, unless Harry was an incredibly violent toddler instead of the six-year-old he had seemed. Harry didn't strike Artie as the destructive type. Even in the obviously worn clothes (which was odd in itself as the family he lived with wore expensive brand-name clothes that very much weren't), Harry was incredibly tidy. During their conversation, Harry had moved and spoken like someone used to needing to be very careful. Careful children do not break their belongings in the ways the toys in the smallest bedroom of Number 4 had been.

When he looked up from his thoughts, Mrs. Fredric was gone. While not unexpected, he had been expecting some definite direction about whether he was allowed to do something more for the boy. It was the Donovan girl all over again. Artie didn't know if he had it in him to keep walking away from children who clearly needed help, duty or no duty. The Hub was getting to be too silent to distract him from the knowledge that they were out there, helpless, even more vulnerable than the agents he had lost over the years.

He looked out over the park where children were innocently playing. He didn't need a detector to know that the ping source had moved again. Both Dudley and Harry had left the park before Mrs. Fredric had arrived for their discussion about why this snag-and-bag was taking so long.

-= LP =-

The Dursleys had just settled around the table when there was a knock at the door. Dudley huffed in annoyance at the delay to his tucking into dinner while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon shared a look over the steaming dishes of pie and vegetables. Aunt Petunia's gaze darted to the corner Harry was standing in, awaiting the orders that normally came along with dinner. Harry tried not to flinch from the malice he could see in those eyes. His arm ached in remembrance of being broken as punishment for annoying the man at the park earlier. The knock sounded again, managing to seem insistent without any increase in tempo or force. Aunt Petunia stabbed one finger towards the kitchen as she stood and Harry retreated without argument.

Harry felt her before he heard her, just like the few times she had joined Artie in his kid-stalking. Mrs. Fredric had an intimidating presence, not in the sharp way of Aunt Petunia's or the turbulent way of Uncle Vernon's. It was just so _immense_ that Harry had the impression it was going to crush him. It reached out tendrils as if seeking him and it reminded Harry of the monster in a book he had read last year that devoured souls caught in its tentacles. That Mrs. Fredric also had a stoic outward appearance made Harry think she was far scarier than Aunt Petunia on her best (worst) day. Harry resisted the temptation to peek around the corner of the doorframe. He had already calculated that hiding was the safer option, and so in hiding he would stay.

"Harry, please come out here," Mrs. Fredric said, as if countering all his thoughts. Aunt Petunia gave a nearly-silent hiss but it was the sudden sharpness she gained that made Harry stay where he was. Moving was not in his best interest, no matter how scary the stranger was, because she'd leave eventually and Harry would be the one to face down his aunt in a snit. Then he smelled the scent of apples, just as strong as it had been when he opened Artie's bag. Against his better judgment, he leaned into the opening, more to catch the alluring scent than anything else. His eyes met Mrs. Fredric's immediately. He felt one of the tendrils catch him even as he was pulled fully into the dining room by it. Her voice was as warm as a baked apple when she greeted him, despite her lack of a smile.

"You shouldn't be here," Harry told her, more bravely than he felt. Mrs. Fredric raised one eyebrow querulously. Even seated as she was at the Dursleys' oak table, she was still physically intimidating with her broad shoulders and tightly woven beehive of hair. Now that she was closer, Harry could tell more about the energy that surrounded her. She was still scary, but Harry could see now that she was just as safe as Artie. Maybe she'd let him help where Artie had just gotten mad? "Artie said you don't help look for things, and even if you did, you probably won't find it _here_ because everything here is _perfectly normal_ —well, except me, but I don't count. Artie didn't say what he was looking for or what you did instead, but it's obvious that you're more in charge than he is of whatever it is you do. Or maybe you're not, but end up being the boss anyway—it would be hard for someone like Artie to be bossy to someone like you, wouldn't it?"

"Why do you say that, Harry?" Mrs. Fredric asked. Harry glanced at Uncle Vernon who was chewing on his mustache and Aunt Petunia who looked as if she was planning to punish Harry for talking so much about his freakishness. His glance made the woman look over at them as well, and though her face was just as stoically blank when she met his eyes again, Harry knew that she wasn't happy with whatever she had seen. Harry reflexively dropped his gaze as her already intimidatingly large aura flexed to titanic proportions momentarily. She repeated her question, compelling him to answer honestly.

"You're bigger than he is," Harry whispered. Aunt Petunia gave another hiss of displeasure, making Harry rush on to explain. "It's not—I'm not calling you fat or anything. It's about your _presence_ , the energy around you. I don't know what else to call it. Everyone has one and bigger people tend to be bosses to those smaller than them. It's not bad and if he's the boss, then okay, that's fine, but it would be hard, wouldn't it? Because he's so much smaller and softer than you are?"

"Tell me about the apple," Mrs. Fredric ordered, changing to topic suddenly. Harry looked up startled. He felt his eyes go wide at the realization of what he must have done wrong to earn this visit in the first place. Harry took a step forward, one hand extended towards the woman. He wished so much right then that her skin was not so dark—it hid any hint of possible anger and emotions were really hard for him to get from a stranger's presence alone. Oh, God, if someone as small as his aunt and uncle could cause him so much pain, what would someone of Mrs. Fredric's size do to him if she was mad?

"I gave it back! I didn't—I wouldn't have kept it! I wanted to, but I know it wasn't mine. I'm _not_ a thief, no matter what you've heard. I just…wanted to hold it for a while," Harry finished lamely. He moved his left hand to hold his right elbow. He really wanted to cross both of his arms over his chest, but that always made Aunt Petunia even more upset if he did it while she was taking him to task on something. Given how much worse it made his punishments from Aunt Petunia, he didn't want to risk upsetting someone like Mrs. Fredric. He could feel his eyes prickling as the nerves began to affect him. This was _not good_ and Harry just knew that it was going to get _worse_ , because that's how things _always_ worked.

"It's alright, Harry. You're not in any trouble," she soothed. She stood from her seat, smoothing down her tweed suit. "I just wanted to clarify a few things before we left."

"Oh," Harry whispered, disappointed despite the fact that it should be a relief that she wasn't staying longer. "You and Artie found whatever it was that he was looking for, then? Was it as dangerous as Artie feared? Is he okay?"

"Mr. Nielsen is perfectly fine," Mrs. Fredric replied. Something about the tone made Harry think she was amused by the question. That feeling was not helped by her next words. "And I do believe that we found what brought us here in the first place, yes. Will you please go collect your belongings so that we can be off?"

"I get to go with you?"

"He's not going anywhere!" Uncle Vernon shouted at the same time Harry voiced his shock.

"Yes, he is," Mrs. Fredric said. Harry watched in amazement as she flexed again, passing titanic and leaving it in the metaphoric dust. He stumbled mentally over how to describe what he was sensing. It was _endless_ and for the first time, Harry got a sense of age along with someone's presence, but it was just as _infinite_ as the size which made no more sense than the thick scent of apples and earth that filled the air. At the same time, Harry was filled with the same certainty that let him know that the pendant had been sealed around his neck by the fire of his mother's love—his mother who still comforted him with intangible dreams filled with wisps of lily of the valley and the silky feel of dark red hair. Mrs. Fredric was taking him _home_.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Aunt Petunia snapped. Harry hadn't even noticed that she hadn't returned to her seat after bringing in their guest, too caught up in Mrs. Fredric's presence. Now he was paying for that inattention as his aunt pulled him close to her side using his sore arm. "The boy was given to us and with us, he'll stay. If you take him, he will always be brought back. That's just how it is for as long as I say it is. He's not leaving, with you or anyone else."

All the certainty of a moment ago drained away. Of course he couldn't leave. What had he been thinking? The Dursleys would never let him and even if he did, he'd only be brought back again, and it would be worse than before, so much worse. Aunt Petunia shook him as if to emphasize the points she was trying to make. The flash of bitter copper danced through him as the forceful shakes made him bite his tongue. The pain lingered even after the injury healed and echoed in his heart like the ping of a coin hitting the bottom of a well. This was his life, and until a moment ago, he had been resigned to living it.

"I do not think you understand, Mrs. Dursley," Mrs. Fredric said as impassive as stone and just as giving on the subject. "You do not get a say in the matter. Harry will be coming with me and never stepping foot in your house again." She smiled then, and Harry shuddered at the feel of it. It was far sharper than Aunt Petunia had even thought of ever being. When she spoke next, her words were full of meaning and their weight echoed to Harry in the secret way that people always did. "If I have anything to say about it. Now release the child."

Harry barely processed the unspoken _or else_ that followed because Aunt Petunia was shoving him in Mrs. Fredric's direction. He scurried towards his savior, despite not twenty minutes ago being convinced that she was the scariest woman on the planet. In fact, he no longer only thought so; he _knew_ it was true, but it was okay, better than even, because _awesome_ didn't even start to describe the woman. As soon as he was in arm's reach, Mrs. Fredric pulled him close to _her_ side. He had been expecting her to smell like apples, but instead it was the delicate sweetness of violets which filled his nose. It suited her, he decided without much thought.

"Do you have anything you want to take with you?" she whispered as she held him. Harry thought briefly of the ceramic knife behind the wall of his cupboard before he shook his head. He didn't need it and certainly didn't want the reminder of why he had collected it in the first place. Mrs. Fredric nodded before looking back at Aunt Petunia. "Goodbye, Mrs. Dursley. I hope that you are smarter than you've shown so far when you're answering questions from the local authorities."

Between that breath and the next, they were in a generic-looking bedroom with the sound of a shower running in the background. A wailing similar to a dying cat drifted out over the noise of falling water. After a moment, Harry recognized that it was someone singing badly and off-key. He stepped away from Mrs. Fredric to look around what had to be a hotel room. After a few minutes exploration, including checking the view from the window revealing a London skyline, Harry wandered back to where she had settled upon the bed. He breathed deeply of the violets before speaking.

"What happens now?"

"Now, Artie takes you home, to the Warehouse," she said, matter of fact and calm, "and you enter a world of endless wonder."

He gave her a grin as bright as a bonfire and as hopeful as a star. Then he threw his arms around her neck in a reckless hug before snuggling into the crook created between them. Mrs. Fredric stiffened momentarily before melting to cradle him in return. For the first time outside of his dreams, Harry felt loved. He closed his eyes as he silently vowed to make sure Mrs. Fredric _never_ regretted saving him. He would do everything as _perfect_ as Artie's apples, no matter what. They were going to be his family, after all.

-= LP =-

 **Author's End Note:** It may interest some of you to learn that I have what looks very similar to a D &D magical item entry on Harry's artifact, with very specific rules on its abilities and limitations.


	2. Strangers

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Crossover Information:** This story crosses over aspects from the _Harry Potter_ series by J.K. Rowling and the television series _Warehouse 13_. There may be minor mentions of related canons of either series and possible other similar canons. So far there are no plot points drawn from anything _except_ the _Harry Potter_ books and the episodes of _Warehouse 13_.

 **Timeline Clarification:** the _Harry Potter_ timeline has been moved so that Harry was born in 2000. The Marauder Era moves to match that change while the First Blood War expands to fill the intervening time with Tom M. Riddle being born in the same year that he had been. Most of the alterations to interactions and personalities among the wizarding characters can be traced back to one of those changes to the timeline. Very little of that is relevant yet but will become more so in future pieces.

 **Further Timeline Clarification:** Due to dissonance in ages and time elapses given throughout the _Warehouse 13_ series, there are some slight divergences going to be present for the lead characters. Claudia Donovan is twenty-two when she kidnaps Artie, matching the timeline originally given, instead of the seventeen/freshly eighteen that she would have to be in order to celebrate her twenty-first birthday when she did. Details on other characters are currently still being settled.

 **Summary (** _ **Strangers**_ **):** Harry settled into a new life at the Warehouse, and even adding new agents to the staff didn't disrupt things too much. Then someone took Artie—Harry acts before anyone could even think to stop him. Artie was _his_ , and he was going to get him _back_. Claudia understands that kind of dedication. After all, it's why she took Artie in the first place.

 **Author's Note(s):** This piece has kind of ran away from me. When I set out writing it, I wasn't expecting it to end up so long. Nor did I expect it to end the way that it did. I had a fluffier ending in mind. It wasn't until I was writing the ending that I realize that I wasn't going to get that particular ending quite yet because that wasn't where the characters were taking it. The good news is this means I already have a rough idea of what is going to happen in the next piece of the series.

As a final note: This piece mentions things from the show _Alphas_ , a related canon of _Warehouse 13_. No plot point of the show is being used, just the basic premise of the show which is that there exists individuals with various congenital abilities that give them certain advantages over the majority of humanity and there are groups who gather these individuals to utilize those abilities for various ends.

 **Song Recommendation(s):** "Between Two Lungs" by Florence + the Machine; "War" by Poets of the Fall; "Tears of an Angel" by RyanDan

-= LP =-

Pings of the Heart

Part 02: Strangers

-= LP =-

"It ain't a question of _if_ , just a matter of time." – "Stand Out" from _A Goofy Movie_

-= LP=-

Harry jerked awake, still tangled in his nightmare as much as he was his blanket. He lay in his bed shuddering as he worked through the steps that Leena had given him to calm his aura. Like a mantra, he recited the Warehouse's location on the North American Grid. It was comforting enough to know that he was in a different country on a different continent from the Dursleys that the knowledge always helped him shed the lingering terror of a nightmare—at least enough for him to brave the dark hallway to Artie's room, if need be.

Harry still was not completely used to being able to wake up someone if he wanted comfort from a nightmare, and even asking at all was far different from his life before coming to the Warehouse, but Artie and Leena insisted it was alright and preferable to the alternative. Since the alternative involved the Warehouse attempting to comfort him in ways that usually involved artifacts, Harry understood why they insisted. He tried to keep it to a minimum, because he didn't want to annoy Artie, but sometimes, he couldn't help it—and Harry knew that Artie would be more annoyed about having to clean up neutralizer than he would be about Harry crawling into his bed for a snuggle. But Harry was almost nine now, and even if he didn't go to school with the other kids in Univille, he still knew that snuggles were for babies.

He still wanted one, though.

Artie muttered his name when Harry crawled in beside him. Still mostly asleep, the older man let Harry snuggle in without more than half-formed words of meaningless comfort. Harry didn't mind that Artie wasn't worried about the late-night visit. It was preferable to the full alert he had gone into when Harry first arrived at the Warehouse. Leena had explained that artifacts could be dangerous far more thoroughly than Artie ever had—and how Artie had outlasted many people handling them by sheer grit. In the thirty-five years Artie had been working for the Warehouse, there had been a total of twenty-eight agents employed there. Currently, there was just Artie. Harry could appreciate why Artie used to prepare for battle every time Harry woke him up in the middle of the night—and it made him appreciate that Artie didn't now even more.

Listening to Artie's breathing return to his deep sleep pattern, Harry mulled over how Mrs. Fredric had announced that they were going to get new agents soon. It worried him as much as it was a relief. New agents would mean that Artie was not going to be going out in the field as much, which Harry saw as a good thing because both Leena and Artie had stressed that _artifacts were dangerous_ so many times that Harry had no doubt that even the coolest things could end up doing something bad. Living at the Warehouse with Artie also meant that Harry understood that even the safety protocols could fail to successfully neutralize a misbehaving artifact.

While Mrs. Fredric had clearly stated that Harry was never going back to the Dursleys, Harry wasn't certain if that would still hold true if something happened to Artie or if they managed to get his mother's artifact off him. Or even worse: if they found out that his freakishness went deeper than sensing auras. Over the months, Harry had met with the Doctor several times, and some of those visits had taken place at her clinic. That gave him an opportunity to meet her other patients and their various keepers. Harry shivered at the thought of the so-called alphas and thanked the Dursleys for teaching him to keep secrets tightly locked inside himself. As long as Artie was safe and Harry was connected to the necklace, he was guaranteed to be kept at the Warehouse and not sent back to the Dursleys or into the care of the alpha programs. Artie was the one in charge of Harry, no matter how much bigger Mrs. Frederic was, so Harry knew that his sanctuary at the Warehouse was dependent upon the grumpy teddy bear.

Maybe Leena would be willing to keep him; she did seem to like him and she was really nice whenever they had their lessons. She watched him while Artie was on missions already, so keeping him full-time wouldn't be too much of a burden. She also appreciated Harry's help with the B&B chores even if she looked really sad watching him do them, which was beyond weird. If that didn't work out, Harry had backup plans that he'd been preparing just in case something went wrong—hiding from the Warehouse would be much harder than hiding from her agents, but Harry knew that she would be on his side if it came down to it.

New agents also meant that there was someone else to possibly hurt Artie, though. It meant new people to care for and to lose. Harry could see how hard that was for Artie, even if he himself had never really experienced it. It was obvious in the way Artie would explode at the thought of him getting hurt, even in their first meeting. Through Leena, Harry had heard about agents dying, or disappearing, or suffering fates worse than death. He had learned about just how many times Artie had had to walk away from the artifact user adjacent victims, because the artifact was the mission, not the people. Harry's presence at the Warehouse was an abnormality and even after the ten months he had been in South Dakota, he remained uncertain if he was there because his ability made him useful or because the necklace refused to be removed or neutralized. New agents brought with them the possible answer to that question.

Harry pressed his ear against Artie's chest. Taking a deep breath, he let his guardian's natural scent of chamomile and mint chase away his worries about the future and its possibility of a return to the past. There was no sense in borrowing trouble before it was due, after all. The future would be here soon enough.

-= LP =-

"You should duck," Harry announced after a few minutes of watching the new agent wander around outside the Warehouse from his hiding spot. The man twisted on the balls of his feet, narrowly managing to avoid the football as it hit the side of the Warehouse. Harry noted the tiny burst as it updated its findings with the cortex. There was definitely something there, meaning that the new agents were going to be leaving for at least a couple days despite having just arrived. "You're quick on your feet, Mr. Lattimer. That'll help with things."

Before Lattimer could do more than sputter at him, a car rounded the curve leading towards Univille. Harry watched as the two agents exchanged information and barbs, paying more attention to their respective presences than their words. Lattimer was definitely here to stay. His aura was already being pulled towards the Warehouse's, being defined and reshaped by it. Bering worried Harry. She was prickly—not quite as sharply cruel as Aunt Petunia, but extra defensive like cocklebur hairs. Harry would bet a trip into the Spiral that she would be snarky and critical. She was just too tidy to be anything else.

"Artie will be back soon," Harry interrupted, drawing Bering's attention for the first time. He gave her the grin that always got Dudley out of trouble. Her prickly aura flexed slightly, making him wince, before coiling tightly about her skinny frame. She was _definitely_ a cocklebur. "He meant to be here, but he had to fix the FISH. It was acting up. I'd let you in, but I'm not allowed in the Warehouse without either Artie or Leena right now."

"Is that where we are? The Warehouse? What Warehouse? What does it do?"

"Oh, you didn't get the welcome speech?" Harry quipped at Bering, knowing that she had because Mrs. Fredric wouldn't have skipped it, no matter how rushed she was. Mrs. Fredric loved to make the speech. It also gave her a chance to do a final feel of a potential agent. "This is the world of endless wonder you're entering. Officially, it's K39ZZZ on the North American Grid, but Artie likes to call it America's Attic. It's really more of the world's attic, but he's American; he's allowed his foibles."

"We're all allowed our quirks, Harry," Artie said. Both agents did about-faces. The device to summon the FISH gave a whine of protest as the Custodian juggled it while taking off his gear. Harry noted Bering wince at the sound even as he did himself. Artie pointed at him before pointing down to the ground. "Down from there before I make you clear the neutralizer tubes, young man."

"Didn't Leena say that I wasn't allowed to do it anymore?"

"Just get down," Artie said with a sigh. Harry jumped from the top of the concrete base of the pylons nearest the door. He landed just a bit off, but his necklace fixed the ache of the twist just as quick as it appeared. Artie's lips thinned in that way that meant he had noticed even if Harry didn't want him to know. The man always knew when an artifact was working around him; it was his quirk along with his knack at finding things. Lattimer jumped into the space between them with a spike of presence that blazed through Harry's senses like lightning.

"You! It was you!" Turning to Bering, Lattimer explained in rapid fire phrases how Artie had taken the Aztec bloodstone that was currently waiting to be processed by Leena. Not that Lattimer knew that last part, but Harry did, intimately. The stupid thing was why he wasn't allowed to be alone in the Hub or Artie's apartment currently. Like a lot of artifacts in the Warehouse (and the Warehouse _itself_ ), the bloodstone _liked_ him, and attempted to latch onto Harry's presence any time it wasn't distracted trying to entice other people to touch it.

"Do you ever finish a sentence?" Harry asked, interrupting the weird half communication that was happening between the two agents. Both turned towards him, but it was Bering who responded.

"Even a child has better grammar than you do," she snarked. She waved a perfectly manicured hand in Harry's direction while the other one pointed a finger at Lattimer's chest. Artie rolled his eyes and gestured Harry over to the door. Harry scurried over to his guardian's side to silently take the summoner so that Artie could herd the agents into the Warehouse.

"Come on in. Don't be shy. I made cookies."

" _You_ made them?"

"Oh, you little—" Artie cut himself off as Bering looked like she was going to whack him on the head. Harry was glad that Artie couldn't sense the auras of people as well as he could pick up on the auras of artifacts. Bering's prickles had become stabby when Artie had started his grumbling. Half of Harry was annoyed by this—after all, grumbling was how Artie showed his affection—but the other half had a warm, toasty feeling that she was willing to be defensive of someone she had just met. Even acknowledging that it could have been only because he was a kid, kindness was a new thing. "As Harry here so helpfully pointed out, when he ruined my mysterious shtick, I did _not_ bake the cookies, something which you will be thankful for down the road. But Leena _did_ , and she bakes very well—especially oatmeal Scotchies."

"They're really good," Harry added when Bering hesitated. Lattimer seemed to be bouncing between extremes. He was agitated then calm and then demanding. The shifting aura around him made Harry's head hurt as he tried to keep up. Harry didn't like him, no matter that the Warehouse clearly did. Bering was at least stable and orderly for all her pokey-ness. "Leena makes them with only half the sugar, because she knows I don't like really sweet things. You don't eat sugar much, but I think you'll like them, too."

"How do you know that I don't eat sugar?"

"Mrs. Fredric creates really thorough dossiers on potential agents." Harry finished with a half-shrug. Careful not to dip or lean the summoner, he toed the dirt. Artie huffed in that way the meant Harry was in trouble again. He knew he wasn't supposed to read the Warehouse files, even though Mrs. Fredric had said it was okay with the Regents. Artie didn't want him to get any more involved in Warehouse business than he already was, living with an artifact around his neck and taking lessons from Leena on how to control his freakishness (what they knew of it, at least). He just got so _bored_ , and reading was something that was quiet and could be done out of the way. Harry knew that he was probably going to have to clear the neutralizer tubes, regardless of Leena's stance on the matter. Artie assigned chores as punishments, and with the way that artifacts liked him, inventory was too risky. Harry didn't mind his chores; Artie was a much easier task-manager than Aunt Petunia any day of the week.

Harry startled when a hand settled on his shoulder and pulled him away from Artie's side and closer to another body. The presence was unfamiliar, soft like down feathers and silky like flower petals. When he looked up, Bering was standing close enough to him that he could smell the larkspur scent that hovered about her like a cloud. She was glaring at Artie with her head tilted at a funny angle. It took him a moment of floundering to realize that somehow she had wrapped her aura around him, all those prickles now directed at his guardian while Harry was safely cocooned. He didn't mean to, but he burst out laughing at the absurdity of needing protection from the man who had smuggled him out of the country of his birth. His freakishness spiked in response to his mirth, making the device in his hand whine in protest of the conflicting energy.

"I like her," Harry declared, earning a grunt from Artie. The old man just pointed to the open entrance to the Umbilicus. Harry wrapped his free arm around the woman who looked ready to face down a monster like Uncle Vernon. Using the leverage, he urged the much taller agent to follow Artie into the Warehouse. "Come on, Leena also sent up herbal tea to go with the cookies, and you'll like the Warehouse, once you get used to her. Don't let Artie's grumbling get to you. That's just how he is."

"You're a kid, remember? You're supposed to be drinking milk," Artie grumbled as the group moved into the white tube. "Don't touch the bombs, Mr. Lattimer."

Lattimer yanked his hand away from the pillar bomb he had been about to touch. Artie barely looked back to see if they were following him. Harry decided to push his luck just a little further than he already was with an arm around Bering's waist. Bering responded to him leaning in by adjusting her grip to more closely resemble an actual hug. He directed the grin threatening to split his face in half towards the ground. Around him, the Warehouse glowed with shared happiness and the Umbilicus filled with the smell of apple blossoms. Harry was certain that the new agents were going to work out just fine. Artie was finally going to be safe, and Harry would _never_ have to find out if Leena would be willing to keep him around if something happened. The future was just a smidgen more certain that it had been when he had woken up this morning.

-= LP =-

It started as an echo. Harry ignored the feeling of displacement. He had been feeling it increasingly since shortly after the appointments of Pete and Myka to the Warehouse. It was always worse when Artie fell into one of his zones or dream-states. Harry was worried, though he was hiding that from Artie because he was _not_ supposed to know about the breaches. Like Harry could really be ignorant of it when he lived in the Warehouse and the hacker had managed to gain partial control of Warehouse systems, but Artie wanted Harry kept out it for some reason, so for Artie, Harry would pretend. So when Harry felt Artie slip, Harry only paused to let the shudder run through him before continuing making the beds at the B&B, knowing that the Warehouse would take care of her Custodian.

Then he felt like he was being electrocuted again. He could hear the Warehouse herself protesting what was happening within her. Something had pulled her teeth and she was fighting back the only way she knew how. The artifacts were her priority—they had to be—but the Warehouse _liked_ Harry and so she screamed an alarm as her Custodian was first hurt and then stolen from within her protection. Harry felt the energy arcing from his body, and it _hurt_ so much, pain like he hadn't felt since coming to South Dakota, like something was breaking within him. He was burning and dissolving, being both consumed and doing the consuming. Harry _had_ to act; and it had to be _now_ , fallout be damned. When he opened his eyes, he met Leena's scared gaze. He spoke a single word before letting his freakishness pull him to the Hub.

Harry worked quickly. Leena was probably already contacting Mrs. Fredric or Pete and Myka who were on their way back to the Warehouse after completing their latest mission. They would stop him from hunting down the person who took Artie, would forbid him from being involved in Artie's rescue, or retrieval, if the worst were to happen. He tried not to think of what he would need to do in that case—it was too big and right now, he could still help Artie. He just had to get the information he needed and be gone before they arrived. It's not disobedience if there are no commands given. The Warehouse was already running a bit of interference with Mrs. Fredric, keeping the Caretaker distracted and _away_ long enough for Harry to be on his way.

He had been too young to save his mother, whatever had happened to her. He may not be an adult yet, but he wasn't too young any longer. Moreover, the Warehouse agreed. It was why she had called him—why she was rearranging the artifacts so that Harry didn't have to venture beyond the Hub to find the ones he needed. Artie was _hers_ as much as he was _his_ and they were going to bring him _back_. The others wouldn't understand, and only partially because he hadn't shared much about what all he could do with his freakishness. He loved that all of them saw a child to be protected when they looked at him, because it made him feel normal, but Harry knew that he wasn't a normal child. They would try to stop him, in an attempt to protect him, and Harry couldn't allow it, not with Artie out there on his own. He had to protect Artie; he had _promised_ , even if only to himself.

Finding out that it was Claudia Donovan who took Artie only altered Harry's plan slightly. There were dossiers on many of the far-flung clan, as it had a tendency to provide a lot of potential agents or have people who ended up with artifacts. Three files for the clan had been near the top when Harry had arrived, two of them earmarked for observation pending recruitment. One of the recruitment files was for a Joshua Donovan and had a status of "missing presumed dead" as of twelve years ago; the other was Joshua's youngest sister and her status had been updated to "institutionalized" six months ago. Harry was reserving judgment on her mental status—understanding that talking about artifacts and their effects could easily sound like insanity to those not in the know on them. The third file in the stack had Claire Donovan in Warehouse custody and just proved both that Donovans had a knack for finding artifacts and that artifacts were dangerous. That Claudia had been present for the events that led to Claire being in Warehouse custody made Harry feel for her. That had to be tough.

There was still only so much leniency he was willing to give her, after she had violated his home and had stolen his guardian. The electricity that had hurt him had originally come from Artie, and the Warehouse wouldn't have been able to transfer all of it with Harry so far away from him. Which meant that Artie had been hurt bad enough that the Warehouse had to interfere to protect him, and while Harry was already nearly completely healed, Artie didn't have that luxury. Harry could feel the anger of the Warehouse, propelling him onward towards revenge. The emotions fed Harry's own fear of losing Artie, and then his safe haven from the Dursleys and the robe-wearers who had always found and returned him to them before Artie had gotten him out of Britain. A tight ball of tension within him wanted nothing more than to curl into Artie's side and breathe deeply of the man's minty chamomile scent. First Harry had to find him.

Bringing up a recent security feed for the lab where Joshua Donovan had last been seen, Harry cast a practiced eye over it before stepping back from Artie's precious computer system. Things that ran on different types of energy tended to react in slightly unpredictable ways when surges of similar-but-different energy occurred nearby. Artie would be upset if he returned to a computer that needed intensive repairs. Not knowing how much of his reserves he was going to need, Harry borrowed power from the Warehouse to fuel his movement between locations, making the lights dim briefly before returning to full brightness.

Harry was already gone when Artie's Farnsworth began to buzz.

-= LP =-

Pete's hands tightened on the steering wheel even as he grimaced. Myka opened her mouth to question her partner only to snap it shut when her phone began to ring. It was Leena's ringtone, which meant that something was wrong at the B&B. She wanted to tell Pete to turn back towards town, but the man had already picked up speed as they turned off the highway onto the unmarked road that led to the Warehouse. Knowing by now that he was in the grip of a vibe, Myka swiped to unlock her phone and pick up the call. Without hesitation, she put the call on speaker.

"What's wrong?" she answered in lieu of an actual greeting. There had to be something to warrant both Leena's call and Pete's vibe.

"Something's happened to Artie," Leena answered. Her normally serene tone sounded frazzled. She sounded close to tears even. Myka bit her lip hard, letting the pain give her a measure of focus as worry threatened to overwhelm her. It had to be very bad, and while she wasn't completely certain that she _liked_ Artie, she did like Harry and he had to be upset. Oh, no— _Harry_. "I don't know what happened. Harry just started _screaming_ and giving off electricity and when he finally stopped, he just said Artie's name before disappearing. Artie isn't answering his Farnsworth and if that's where Harry went, he's not either."

"What do you mean Harry _disappeared_? I thought all he could do was match Pete's cookie consumption and sense people's auras," Myka demanded. Leena gave a hiccupping sound before answering.

"Harry is bonded to an artifact," Leena explained, which wasn't new information to the two agents as both had asked why the Warehouse had a kid involved in the organization. Myka also knew from reading the older reports that the artifact was virtually unknown. It was unresponsive to neutralizer and any attempt to destroy it proved futile, and only served to make Harry really agitated. The only thing noted under abilities, though, had been healing and protection. Teleportation didn't fit. Myka made a noise of acknowledgement. "His guardians before coming to the Warehouse were unappreciative of that, and Harry is very distrustful because of it. To the point that I can't get a good in-depth read on his aura. We know about his ability to sense auras because he revealed it to Mrs. Fredric and I train him in controlling it, but there is a lot that we don't know about his capabilities, even after a year of him living here."

"He opens up to Artie, though," Pete put in as they rounded the last bend and the Warehouse came into view.

"Yes," Leena agreed, "and now something has happened that had Harry frantic enough to reach him that he revealed another ability. His screams were horrible, and Room 5 is going to need repairs from the backlash of whatever feedback Harry was receiving from Artie. How far out are you?"

"We're pulling up to the Warehouse now," Myka answered. Pete was already getting out of the SUV, his eyes locked on the open door to the Umbilicus. "Oh, god, the door is just hanging open."

Without giving Leena a chance to reply, Myka ended the call and jumped out to back up her partner. This was quickly moving from a potential bout of bad health to something far worse. With the recent breaches in the Warehouse's security, this could be catastrophic. Neither agent hesitated to pull their side arm instead of the Tesla. Even if just Artie had been in danger, the need to drop multiple combatants judiciously was key. With a child possibly present, it was even more so.

It took less than a minute to recognize that the Hub was empty of people. Someone had clearly done a hurried search of the room and several systems. A security feed for what looked to be an abandoned storeroom somewhere had been left up on Artie's main screen with a pair of Warehouse profiles left up on the secondary. Myka took note of the matching surnames on the files before continuing her scan of the room. A device that Myka didn't recognize had been abandoned on a stack of paperwork that Artie had been meaning to finish for the last week. There were signs of a struggle, but only two people had been involved. There didn't seem to be any immediate sign of blood but if the unsub used electricity to subdue Artie, there wouldn't necessarily be any. Most worryingly was the broken button for the emergency alarm that laid abandoned in the middle of the floor.

"Someone took Artie?" Pete asked. He looked helpless as he holstered his weapon. "But where's Harry? Did they take him, too?"

"I don't think so—but I think Harry's following them. Somehow, probably through the same way that he left the B&B. But I don't understand _how_ he knew where to go?"

Artie's Farnsworth buzzed on its stand. Myka made sure to holster her weapon before hitting the button to receive the transmission. Mrs. Fredric appeared on the screen. She looked displeased to see them but not worried. Wasn't this going to be a pleasant conversation?

"I'm calling for Artie," Mrs. Fredric said simply. "You two are decidedly not he."

"Ah, yeah, about that," Pete started before Myka cut across him.

"Someone took Artie, and we have reason to believe that Harry is either with them or following them."

"That can't happen," Mrs. Fredric denied. "The Warehouse would have let me know if it was physically breached—" Myka held up the disconnected button. The other woman's face dropped all emotion in shock. Her next question was like a stabbing knife. "Why do you think Harry is with them?"

"Leena says he had some kind of weird fit, said Artie's name, and then disappeared. When we got here, there were signs that someone had been here after whoever took Artie had left, but no Harry. However Harry is moving, it's not on foot, so he may already have found them."

"What evidence and how long have they been missing?"

"Leena called me twenty minutes ago. I don't know how soon she did so after Harry left her, but judging by the artifact that has been left on Artie's desk and the files that have been pulled up on Artie's computer, Harry would have needed at least ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how long it takes the artifact to work. We arrived about seven minutes ago."

"What are the artifact and files?"

"Hey, guys, I have eyes on Harry," Pete interrupted. Myka tore her attention from the Farnsworth to look at Pete. He was pointing at the larger screen. Harry was moving about the room displayed by the security feed. Myka had to give the kid at least some credit; he appeared to be carefully investigating the space. He had his messenger bag with him but he was barefoot, just like he usually was whenever he helped Leena clean the B&B. His hair seemed wilder than it normally was—which Myka supposed made sense with Leena's story of electricity. As they watched, Harry circled something they couldn't see due to the angle of the camera before his attention snapped towards the area above the visible door.

Whatever had drawn his attention made the feed fill with static, which told her as clearly as a declaration that it was artifact related. Myka could hear Pete and Mrs. Fredric talking about something, but she kept all of her attention on the screen, waiting for it to clear again and keeping measure in her head of the elapsing time. She had to trust that Pete could handle things with the overseer—her skill lay in observation of details and right now, that may be the difference between bringing Harry and Artie home or losing them both. Since their mission with James Braid's chair, they had come to an unsteady truce. Pete had told her the first night they had a conversation that he specialized in logistics and while she had the training from the Academy, he had military training and experience. Every advantage they could muster, they needed right now.

The feed cleared finally, revealing Harry examining a collection of test tubes. Harry turned his head towards the camera as if sensing her watching. His face was just as blank as Mrs. Fredric's had turned at the sight of the disconnected alarm. Despite the lack of color on the feed, Myka could tell his eyes had to be glowing. The feed turned black even though the window stayed open. Something had to be blocking the camera, but not the transmission. She turned her attention to Pete.

"She gave me the location of the Rheticus artifacts and our mission before signing off."

"Our _mission_? We should be helping Artie and Harry!"

"It is helping them—apparently Joshua Donovan failed to replicate Rheticus' experiments with human translocation. We're to find what he missed and get the information to Artie. Mrs. Fredric thinks that Claudia Donovan is trying to bring back Joshua by replicating his failed experiment or undo whatever it was that made him go missing and she needs Artie to do so. Right now, he's safe, more or less—no," he negated when she opened her mouth to argue. She snapped it shut and glared at him. It was water and Pete was a duck for all the good it did. Pete looked so serious and focused. She could practically hear his mind working. "He _is_ , Myks, because Donovan needs him alive, but he's going to need whatever Joshua missed or it will end in failure again and this time Artie and Harry are involved. So we treat it like we do any mission. Artie normally does the research end anymore, but he is a fully trained field agent. We have to trust that he can take care of himself _and_ Harry."

"Harry's just a little boy," she whispered.

"I know that Harry seems like a brat, but he _always_ listens to Artie," Pete countered. Myka allowed her partner to pull her into a hug, despite the unfamiliarity of the comfort. He rubbed her back instead of squeezing tight, like he knew that would be more soothing. Was that a vibe thing or just a Pete thing? "Harry always follows directions and orders. I'm willing to bet it's why he didn't answer the Farnsworth for Leena, because she would have told him to stay put. As long as we get what Artie needs, they'll be fine."

"Then let's figure it out so that we can go get our wayward handler and brat."

' _One step at a time,'_ she reminded herself. _'Order saves lives, but only if followed. One step at a time.'_

-= LP =-

Claudia shoved the double doors open and yanked the traitor through them. He went easily but hesitated just within the lab. She kept moving even as she demanded that he come away from the easy escape route. Something was different about the space, but as her eyes swept the setup, she couldn't see anything out of place.

"I'm fine right here."

"Think so?" she questioned as she spun around and pulled the control mechanism for the cuffs from her pocket. Like she expected, the old man immediately gave in and moved away from the lab doors. His hands were held up in the universal sign for patience.

"Or there. There is very good, too." He looked scared, which suited her just fine. As long as he obeyed, she wouldn't have to risk damaging him. Artie Nielsen was her best bet of saving Joshua. She needed him alive. "You're doing this all wrong, Claudia—bringing me here in daylight, using my own car? Amateur moves, and for what? Killing me won't erase Joshua's accident. He died a long time ago, Claudia. Come on."

"He's not dead," she insisted as a tingle ran across her skin. It wasn't like Joshua's pull. Her feeling of something being off intensified. She turned away from her captive even as he tried to tell her how terrible the accident was. She shook her head, both to deny his words about Joshua being gone and to clear the dull roaring that seemed to be coming from somewhere and everywhere at the same time. "He's _not_ and you're going to see that I'm not crazy."

"You're only half-right, Donovan." The voice was harder than any voice she had ever heard and even as she turned towards its speaker, Claudia knew that things were spinning out of her control. When she saw the small child standing on the opposite side of the drawn circle, she relaxed. What could a child do to her, especially a child as young as this one? He couldn't be older than seven at the outside, going by his scrawniness.

She shivered when their eyes met, and she quickly changed her estimation of him. She had seen eyes like that in the bughouse and it never boded well. People with eyes like that were prepared for death, in whatever form it took. Those were dangerous eyes. People with eyes like that were desperate and willing to go to any lengths to accomplish their goals. She should know—she saw those eyes in the mirror in the weeks since her attempt to bring Joshua back failed.

"Oh, _Harry_ ," Artie breathed before rushing towards the boy. On reflex, she hit the button activating the cuffs before he could get more than a few steps beyond her. Like before, he pitched forward but suddenly, the electricity arced off the cuffs and hit the boy's outstretched hand. Immediately after the arc connected, Artie's limbs relaxed but the boy began to scream.

Claudia could only watch, unbelieving, as the tiny body took in a far higher voltage than it should have been capable of handling. Her thumb held the button depressed as her mind ran numbers which confirmed what she already suspected. _'He should be dead. Oh, God—'_ She threw the controller against the wall. She was going to be sick. Desperate or not, she didn't want to kill anyone—that wasn't the plan, and now, oh, God, now a _kid_ —

The boy fell to his knees as the current disappeared, but didn't fall further. He shuddered as he kneeled where he had fallen. Artie stumbled across the space, far more agile than an old man should be with a belly like the one he had, even if he did spend a great deal of time chasing madcap. It was more like if he had to chase a kid around occasionally as well. Reaching the boy, Artie cupped his face with both hands. It was the only embrace he could give with his hands still cuffed. Oh, God, she had killed _Artie's kid_ and Artie couldn't even hold him as he died.

She lost the battle to keep the contents of her stomach.

-= LP =-

Mrs. Fredric was waiting for them in the Hub. Myka gave her a grin, confident that they had found the missing piece that would save Artie. As the other woman continued to just stare out the window that overlooked the Warehouse floor, Myka's grin crumbled. Something wasn't right. Mrs. Fredric turned to face them slowly, as if moving took a great deal of effort. Tear tracks glistened on her dark cheeks.

"Rheticus liked puzzles," Myka whispered what she had been prepared to crow. It didn't feel like a triumph anymore, not in the face of whatever had wrought an emotional response from the stoic woman. Myka forced herself to continue sharing what she and Pete had worked out from the Rheticus artifacts. "He hid clues in all his artifacts—hid _rules_. Joshua must not have had all the rules needed to replicate the experiment."

"Mrs. F?"

"Mr. Lattimer, Ms. Bering, I will take you to Artie in a moment," Mrs. Fredric said as evenly as normal. She looked like she was being held together by will alone. Myka had the sudden memory of Harry as he tended the shade garden at the B&B, laughing as he announced how the violets reminded him of the woman before her now. It was fitting, in a way, because violets thrived in the shadows but when exposed to full sun, tended to wilt. Mrs. Fredric looked very wilted at the moment. "I just need to prepare you—"

"It's Harry, isn't it?" Myka took a step closer, wanting— _something_ to contradict the conclusion she had just reached. The evidence didn't lie, but Harry was just a child. He was far too young to have—

"No," Pete denied. He shook his head. "No, no, _no_. It's not true. It can't be—I would have felt it."

"Regardless of your personal feelings, Mr. Lattimer—"

"You're _wrong_. Whatever you think you know, you're wrong. Do you understand? You're _wrong_!"

"Pete—"

"No, Myks," Pete snapped. "It _can't_."

Like an open book, Pete's face spoke of his conflict. It was listening to him talk about why he always acted on his vibes all over again. He worked so hard to get on with Harry who seemed just as intent to keep him at a distance. They had only just started bonding just a week or so before this last mission—over food, of course, because it's _Pete_. Pete brought Harry scones, savory ones of some really weird combination, from the local bakery, and Harry had stared at him before jumping at him in an uncharacteristically enthusiastic hug. It had been the first embrace that they had seen Harry initiate completely on his own since arriving with his response to Myka's unnecessary protection at their initial meeting being the only possible challenger—not that Myka counted it as she was certain that if she hadn't pulled him against her, he wouldn't have wrapped an arm around her. Pete never mentioned just how much Harry avoiding him bothered him, but Myka knew it did by how careful Pete was around the boy, letting him be the one in charge of their interactions and always backing off if Harry gave the slightest indication of being uncomfortable. Myka had also seen Pete whispering with Leena several times and their expressions meant they probably weren't talking about their next rendezvous. Looking into Pete's eyes, Myka knew he wanted to believe what he was saying over what Mrs. Frederic was telling them. Not knowing how his vibes worked, Myka couldn't validate either claim, couldn't reassure him that Harry was coming back to them.

"It can't," he begged. His eyes darted between her and Mrs. Fredric. The black woman had managed to pull herself together enough that the tear tracks were drying. Her eyes still looked like burning coals.

"I realize that there are many things you are still learning," Mrs. Fredric offered as a peace offering. She held up a hand briefly before returning it to her side. "There's not much time so I need you to listen for a moment without the emotional overreaction, Mr. Lattimer. Let me explain exactly why this is _my_ bailiwick. While the Warehouse is not sentient in the way that you or I, it is alive and at least limitedly self-aware. It is capable of developing attachments and preferences, even if it only meets an individual through indirect contact. The Warehouse chooses its staff as much as policy and necessity do. To specific individuals, the Warehouse has both the ability and inclination to communicate. A part of this functionality comes from the Warehouse's connection with its current Caretaker—its active voice and face, if you will. In exchange for sharing whatever has made the Warehouse endure through the centuries, the Caretaker serves the Warehouse."

"The Warehouse likes Harry—Artie gripes about it a lot," Myka observed at the same time that Pete spoke.

"Harry calls the Warehouse _she_."

"While it is not always the case, the Warehouse has historically shown a preference for female Caretakers. There is no insignificant amount of bleed over between Caretaker and Warehouse. This does work in reverse as well. The Warehouse cares very deeply for young Harry and has since their first indirect interaction. It was the Warehouse who told me to visit Harry at his former guardians' as much as it was Artie. The Warehouse has jealously protected Harry since his arrival here…including informing me that Harry had been very badly injured earlier and will be more hurt if help does not arrive quickly. Now, do you have all that you need?"

"Yeah," Pete answered, chastised but no longer on the verge of crying. He shifted his posture from loose to something resembling parade rest. "Let's go bring our boys home."

-= LP =-

"Harry, _Harry_! You have to answer me, kid," Artie said, trying not to shake the boy but _needing_ a response from him. Harry could be so stubborn, so smart-alecky, but right at that moment, Artie would have traded the entire Warehouse to get him back, for him to make a sassy little comment. He was breathing, in a stilted sort of way, but he was still breathing. Now Artie just needed him to _respond_.

"Ow," the boy muttered, and Artie absolutely was not about cry in relief. He did place a kiss upon his forehead before turning his head so that his cheek rested upon Harry's wild curls. A feeling like a cross between sucking and tingling rolled over his skin. Harry jolted in Artie's restricted hold. "Oh! We have to—Artie, her brother is alive but trapped. She did something—something really, really stupid because you can't just replace an artifact with its physical components—there's, oh, what do you call it? There's the bits they acquire from their creators. As if raw specimens of pyrite and quartz could replace a created device in the first place."

Harry struggled to stand, but his limbs kept spasming out of his control. Artie pulled him back down, restraining him as best as he was able with his hands cuffed. The boy managed to fight his way to his feet. Immediately, he took to rearranging the supplies scattered across the available flat surfaces of the lab. All the while he kept talking, fast and with a slur around the edges of his words. Clearly the spasms were not limited to his limbs.

If Artie felt as achy and tired as he did after a channeling the electricity from the cuffs when it had been tailored to roughly the correct resistance, how must Harry feel when it would have done so much more damage? He knew that Harry's necklace healed him of a great variety of things, but for the first time, Artie recognized just how powerful the artifact must be. The knowledge caused an icy finger to trickle down his spine. Artifacts always extracted some kind of price for their power.

"Donovan's experiment was always doomed because the little idiot had no bloody clue what Rheticus' Compass really was. It was successful enough to destabilize the—curtain? wall? I can't think very clearly, but it's unstable and it's now sucking energy from you and Donovan to power the—for fuck's sake, Donovan, do you have to snivel so fucking loudly? I really don't have the time or inclination to deal with your issues right now. You were stupid and reckless and we can deal with all that _after_ we solve the problem at hand."

"Language, Harry," Artie corrected out of habit. He received a glare worthy of Mrs. Fredric in return before Harry resolutely began to mess with the capacitors in the room. Artie hurried after him. His heart couldn't handle watching Harry receive any more shocks at the moment. Unfortunately, his hands were still bound by the augmented handcuffs. Spotting them, Harry scowled, far angrier than Artie had ever seen him. Not even being baptized by neutralizer refuse that had stained him an ugly shade of brownish-purple had made Harry this angry. The boy was remarkably tolerable of so much, and while quick with sarcastic quips, Harry rarely complained about things. Harry's hand shook as he placed it on the chain connecting the cuffs. A quiet snick announced the cuffs unlocking. They fell to the ground with a clatter.

"Sorry, sir," Harry muttered, turning back to the pyrite specimens in their vials. Pain flared within Artie, bright and sharp. Harry hadn't used that subservient tone with him since shortly after he had come to the Warehouse. Artie _hated_ that attitude. It wasn't _Harry_ , not the boy who loved cookies and herbal tea and could never get enough of the Warehouse or the gardens of the B&B. That attitude belonged to the boy who would have a panic attack at the sight of cupcakes and made no sound if he broke a bone—the boy who still crawled into Artie's bed at least once a week because the night was the only time he was really brave enough to seek the comfort others just automatically gave away. This was the mouse created by the Dursleys and Artie would make Claudia pay for bringing it back to the surface.

The tingling feeling grew stronger, impossible to ignore. His vision blurred as he slipped away to the darkened room that held the hazy memories that had been haunting him for almost two months. A younger Claudia begged him to stop her brother's cascading failure of an experiment. She was older than she was the first time they had met—when she had identified the music box as the source of the kinetic ability that had corrupted her sister and cost the elder Donovans their lives. Their eyes may have been different colors, but Artie recognized Harry in the depths of Claudia's eyes in that moment between moments. That was the expression his boy had worn in their first meeting as he tossed him an apple and commanded Artie not to follow him. God, they were both just children—children whose lives had been shaped by artifacts that stole so much from them. He couldn't walk away anymore, couldn't prioritize just the artifacts and leave the people, _the children_ , to suffer alone.

"Does that happen a lot?" Claudia asked as Joshua's lab reappeared as it presently was rather than how it had been in the past. She was standing beside the mark on the floor from Joshua's attempt at teleporting. Her arms were crossed and the fingers of her left hand beat an impatient rhythm on one of them. Harry gave a grunting scoff as he worked. Artie didn't have a clue where he had gotten the golden-colored wire he was wrapping around the coils of the super-capacitor. "Either way, you might want to stop your boy-wonder before he destroys the genny—which we need, by the way, if we're going to save Joshua. I'd do it, but I'm apparently stuck."

"Stuck? What do you mean _stuck_?"

"Oh, your _pet_ waved his fucking hand and suddenly I couldn't move from this spot. It would be freakin' awesome, if he wasn't messing around with delicate equipment while looking like a zombie waiting to happen. Even I don't jam for answers that hard. There's burnt out and then there's burnt up. Kid should be dead already. Least he could do is take a freaking break while the adults handled the problem."

"Donovan, don't talk," Harry grumped. "You do not get to lecture anyone on working beyond their capacity when you've stupidly linked not just your pranic energy but Artie's to a device currently in another dimension. So shut your gob already. Some of us are trying to save the idiots in the room. Since you're the idiot, please don't distract me."

"Do you even hear yourself? Pranic energy? Who talks like that? You're _seven_. Shouldn't you be going down for a nap?"

"Artie, make her be quiet," Harry begged, seeming to ignore the woman otherwise. Claudia was right about one thing. Harry did sound extremely tired and must be close to full exhaustion if he wasn't putting up a fuss about someone getting his age wrong. As Artie watched, the boy swayed, like he was about to pass out. His fingers trembled against the metal he had worked. Artie fought the urge to make him rest, knowing that insisting would only upset Harry more. Artifacts tended to react stronger whenever Harry was upset in their proximity, even more than they normally did to just his presence. "I'd make her sleep, but I have a feeling that we may need her awake in order to finish this. It needs to be finished—your displacements are growing in both frequency and length. I can't—She started this, Artie. Whatever she did that destabilized the barrier, it's pulling you and her in as well. It needs to end and this is the place. Whatever it is, it's stronger here."

"This is where it started—"

" _Thank_ you, peanut gallery."

"Geez, professor, where did you dig up the _brat_?"

"ARTIE!" yelled two voices as the doors burst open. Myka and Pete spilled into the room like they were drunk. Artie knew they couldn't be—at the very least, Pete would never risk his Coin. They looked like they had fought their way through a storm in order to get here. Myka moved carefully over to him while Pete made a beeline to Harry's side. The nine-year-old squeaked as the former Marine hugged him.

"Joshua didn't have all the rules," Myka whispered frantically to him. The tingling began anew. Now that he understood what was powering the gap, Artie could recognize what the accompanying sucking must be doing. Harry was right, as he often was about how artifacts worked beyond simply _liking_ him: it was sucking his life away with every episode and those episodes were getting closer together. Harry shouldn't have known about the blackouts but of course Harry would notice something that affected the aura of anyone around him. "Rheticus hid rules both on and _inside_ his devices. There must be a rule hidden in the Compass. Where is the Compass? Is it here in the lab?"

"Joshua has it. It disappeared with him." The room wasn't dissolving this time. Instead, something was flickering around the room, distorted and jerky like something out of a horror film. Harry was scrabbling away from Pete to the super-capacitor he had rigged earlier with the wire. Artie needed the Compass; and Joshua had it. Claudia had somehow managed to connect both herself and Artie to the Compass. "I know what to do—Harry, release Claudia, please."

For a moment, Harry looked like he was going to refuse. His green eyes flared with the sparks of his anger. A wave of dizziness hit Artie and he felt a trickle of something hit his top lip. Harry looked like he was going to be sick, but he waved his left hand at Claudia who stumbled forward from the suddenness of her release. Artie grabbed her before flipping the power switch on the generator connected to the augmented capacitor and moving into the marked circle on the floor.

"NO!" Harry screamed. The sound of it broke Artie's heart, but Harry had been right. This had to end, and time was running out. It was risky, going into the same pocket dimension that currently held Joshua. He didn't know for certain that he would have all the information he would need even if he managed to find the secret compartment on the Compass. Artie still didn't fully understand what was going on, but he trusted Harry's innate understanding of artifacts. "Don't— _please_ , Artie, I can get him out. I can fix whatever it was that she broke. Please don't do this."

The flickering image stabilized into a distinctive if ghostly figure that was painfully familiar. Artie didn't need Claudia's happy murmur to identify the young man he had failed to save. His eyes flicked to Harry who stood at the edge of the energy barrier that now surrounded the circle. The boy had both his hands pressed against it as if trying to reach through it. His eyes were wide and for the first time, Artie could see tears falling from them. Resolutely, Artie turned to face Joshua, holding out his free hand.

"Take my hand, Joshua," Artie commanded. Harry screamed again, wordless in his anguish, as Joshua obeyed. It was the last thing he heard before the world turned dark around him.

-= LP =-

Everything hurt. He felt drained from it, even with his mother's necklace healing the damage caused by the electricity he had pulled from the cuffs. His brain still raced through the available information, predicting each potential outcome of what had just happened. Artie was gone, and as time slipped by without any sign the small group would be coming back, Harry knew that it wasn't going to happen. How many times had he been told that artifacts were dangerous? That hunting them was even more so? Artie had lasted thirty-five years on a job where most agents lasted five at the outside. Honestly, it had never been a question of _if_ something was going to happen to Artie. Harry had over a year to prepare for this moment. He had contingency plans, ones that he knew he would have to use because there was no way that Leena would welcome him back to the B &B after what had happened and he couldn't just stay in Artie's apartment because the Warehouse would need a new Custodian eventually. It may have been the closest Harry had to a home, but it wouldn't be the same without Artie's grumbling about milk and juice being better for kids than tea.

With that thought, it hit him that everything he had hidden over the last year was now in the open. They knew more about what his freakishness could do. Harry couldn't breathe. This was bigger than sensing people's presences or understanding how artifacts worked without a lot of experience. This was more than learning quickly or being attractive to artifacts. This wasn't the mildly oddball things that made a person acceptable as a Warehouse agent or the quirkiness that got a person hired in Eureka. These were things that qualified people for the various alpha programs around the world, and in his visits to the Doctor, he had met more than one alpha and their handlers. The handlers were all like the lemon man who told the other robe-wearers to return him to the Dursleys whenever he ran away. The room swam before his eyes as he struggled to breathe through the rising panic.

"Harry, answer me, man," Pete demanded, sounding distant and worried. Harry blinked. Someone was holding him but it couldn't be Pete because Pete was crouched too far away to be the arms holding him. It took longer to recognize the feel of downy feather than it should have. His brain had been racing earlier from all the electrical and magic coursing through him. Now he felt slow and stupid and so very small. Even protectively wrapped in Myka's presence didn't make the terror and pain go away. As comforting as her larkspur scent was usually, right now all he wanted was Artie's chamomile and mint mixture. "Harry?"

"How—how long?"

"Only about three minutes," Myka answered. Harry blinked at her and raised an eyebrow. She frowned at him but gave the other possible answer. "Almost ten now. The barrier came down about a minute and a half ago."

"Mrs. Frederic?"

"She left immediately after dropping us off. Something about needing to check on the Warehouse and Leena." Harry winced at Myka's dry tone. So Myka knew about the danger he had put Leena in before leaving to come here. That meant that Pete probably knew, too, which meant that things would probably sour there as well. He may be young, but he wasn't blind to how much energy the innkeeper and the agent had been exchanging since Pete's arrival. He knew that meant they were shagging each other or at least vamping each other.

Harry's heart felt like a stone in his chest, cold and heavy. They might have fought against sending Harry to an alpha program, but if they thought he was dangerous—there was no hope for it. He had to leave and he had to do it before Mrs. Frederic returned. She had to have felt Artie's loss, because the Warehouse was almost as closely connected to her Custodian as she was to her Caretaker. She must still be trying to keep information from the Caretaker for him. The Warehouse _liked_ Harry and he would miss her. Maybe someday he'd be able to return to his home within her or to the B &B. Maybe someday that idea wouldn't be as painful as it was now.

Harry struggled to his feet. The spasms were gone now and even the pain had finally retreated, from everywhere except his heart. Even as powerful as the necklace was, it had never helped with grief and it would have been unreasonable to wish it to start now. He swayed slightly, far more tired than he had thought. Myka and Pete both reached out hands to steady him, but unlike Artie, did nothing to stop him from moving across the room to where he had left his messenger bag. He turned to look at them one last time.

"Take care of her for me?" he asked. He didn't know if he was asking for them to take care of the Warehouse or Mrs. Frederic, but in the end, did it really matter? They were body and heart to each other, undeniably connected. Myka looked so confused but Pete looked broken.

"Don't do this, Harry," he begged, and Harry heard them as the echo they were. "Whatever it is that has you running now, we can fix it. _I_ will fix it. Just please don't do this."

"You don't understand," Harry countered. His eyes ached from crying, but Harry felt the threat of tears again nonetheless. The pain of everything was just too much to deal with on top of the fear. "It can't be fixed. You can't fix what isn't broken, Pete, or else my necklace would have done it when my mother gave it to me. Without Artie—" Harry choked on the words. They were too big, represented too much. The tears burned as they escaped and Pete looked just as close to crying. He pushed them out anyway. "Without Artie, I won't be allowed to stay at the Warehouse. I'm a freak, and I've seen what happens to freaks—what the _Regents_ allow to happen to freaks. I can't—I can't let that happen. Not when Artie had finally gotten me free."

"Harry, NO!" Pete shouted, seconds too late for the boy to hear. Less than a minute after that a trio of figures appeared in the center of stain on the floor in a burst of energy and light that was completely different than Harry's quiet disappearance. Artie's first act after returning from the interdimensional space was to look around the semi-abandoned lab. Pete knew who he was looking for—his mother always did the same when dealing with crises. Checking on their children was just what parents did. Pete still had to look away when Artie asked where Harry was. As Myka recapped what Harry had said before disappearing, he slid his hand into his pocket to finger his Coin.

No matter what Harry thought, Pete was going to fix this. No man got left behind, and no matter his age, Harry was one of his men.

-= LP =-

 **Author's Note** : Since I stuck an interesting tidbit at the end of _Apples_ , I thought that I'd share one here as well. I have a whole table dedicated to tracking the scents of characters and the meanings connected to them. None of the plants mentioned have been random.


	3. Roads

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Crossover Information:** This story crosses over aspects from the _Harry Potter_ series by J.K. Rowling and the television series _Warehouse 13_. There may be minor mentions of related canons of either series and possible other similar canons. So far there are no plot points drawn from anything _except_ the _Harry Potter_ books and the episodes of _Warehouse 13_.

 **Author's Note(s):** Something that should be noted about the last part of this series ( _Strangers_ ) but it wasn't a major part of the plot then. Harry's presence at the Warehouse has certain effects on events and interacting with him changes how various characters act & react. This can be smallish (Mrs. Frederic being more open with information meant to reassure because she's been doing so with Harry off and on for so long) or it can be larger (like the faster turn of events in _Strangers_ than had happened in _Claudia_ ). It went unsaid, but something else changed due to Harry: Myka Bering didn't fight her assignment to the Warehouse. She still held that initial distrust of Artie Nielsen, but it was offset by Harry's honest declaration of _liking her_ and then almost neutralized completely as Harry bonded with her. There's just something about a kid that suckers a person into doing things they ordinarily wouldn't consider doing.

 **Piece Word Count (Relevant to FanWriMo):** 9821

 **Summary (** _ **Roads**_ **):** Harry left—ran away—vamoosed. Artie didn't understand the reasons, but they weren't important while Harry was out there all alone and hurting. Artie hadn't given thirty-five years of his life to the Warehouse to have it steal away the opportunity to raise another child. And once the brat was back where he belonged, he was _so_ grounded; Artie would figure out how to make that stick later. Right now, he just had to find him.

 **Song Recommendation(s):** "Way We Go Down" by Kaleo; "Hollow" by Breaking Benjamin; "Good Girls" by Elle King; "I Be U Be" by High Valley; "Start of Time" by Gabrielle Aplin

-= LP =-

Pings of the Heart

Part 03: Roads

-= LP =-

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door … You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."

– Bilbo Baggins, _The Fellowship of the Ring_ by J.R.R. Tolkien

-= LP =-

Harry's first act upon reaching his hideaway was to give into the grief eating at him. The burn of the tears helped as much as the cathartic purging of the tears themselves. He knew the words and definitions concerning pain. The libraries available at the Warehouse were very extensive and while he would never admit it while living with his relatives, Harry loved to read for more than simply something quiet and out of the way to do. After joining the Warehouse, reading meant gathering information to help Artie—to help keep him safe…to push off losing him like he now had. Harry never expected for it to hurt this much. He really didn't. Even though his eyes hurt, that pain, hard and sharp as it was, had nothing on the pain in his heart. None of those fancy words could encompass that ache.

Desperate to feel something other than grief, Harry clawed at his necklace. Nothing would last as long as it was around his neck. His nails tore at the skin of his collar, making him tingle with increasing irritation. Frustrated, he let out a sob. Energy tumbled across his skin, as weak as it was wild. He had used so much more than he was used to trying to save Artie. It was all just so pointless in the end. Everything he had done was for _nothing_. Here he was, alone again. He let out a wail, unable to keep silent even a moment longer.

Exhaustion finally dragged him under darkness, giving him a short respite.

-= LP =-

"Artie, you need to rest—"

"That's not going to happen," Artie snapped at Leena as he started typing commands into his computer. He could _hear_ the looks being exchanged between the innkeeper and his agents. He could definitely feel the awkwardness of the two siblings who hovered by the door watching the Warehouse staff plot their arguments. If they were going to stick around, Artie was going to use them. He spun on his chair. "Claudia Donovan, you want to stay out of federal prison? Get your ass over here and get to work! The rest of you, be useful or be gone!"

"You think the kid set something up legit? That's an awful lot of planning for a seven-year-old," Claudia groused as she moved to the secondary terminal set up in the corner. It irritated him to see someone other than Harry there, but right now, a second person searching for his—the kid was worth more than maintaining the sanctity of his space.

"Nine," Artie corrected automatically. He was good at finding whatever he wanted. He'd find Harry and bring the little monster home. Then he'd set Harry to do a complete flush and overhaul of the damn neutralizer pipes—oh, that boy would have so many chores that he would _never_ have the time or energy to run away again.

"Huh?"

"Harry's nine," Pete clarified as Artie kept working through what databases Harry had accessed. The Warehouse refused to respond to any of his attempts to narrow down the results. That was bad—very bad. He let out a string of curses. "What's wrong?"

"Damn building is helping him," Artie replied, already trying a backdoor. "Claudia—"

"On it, boss-man."

"Artie—"

"I thought I was clear," Artie interrupted before Leena could get any further than his name. "Either be useful or _leave_. Until Harry is home, that is our priority—outside of any artifacts causing major problems."

"I'll search his room," Myka volunteered before disappearing through the door half-hidden by filing cabinets that led to the apartment given to the Custodian of the Warehouse. Artie waved a hand in her direction. He was vaguely aware of Pete talking to Leena and Joshua but the Warehouse started actively trying to redirect his searches to the dietary habits of penguins and anything else just wasn't as important.

Really, _nothing_ was as important as finding Harry.

-= LP =-

Time had an odd way of passing. Harry was certain that he lost longer than he thought, especially at first when he didn't do anything except basic necessities. He only vaguely remember talking to the program he had pilfered from Global Dynamics when he set up the safe house before fading back into the oblivion of sleep. While he had stocked his hideout with a variety of nonperishable foods, Harry wasn't hungry enough to eat any of it for what seemed like the longest time. He would drink water from his tap and go to the bathroom, but mostly he just slept. Asleep, he couldn't remember what he had lost and if he couldn't remember, it didn't hurt. Eventually, the gnawing of his stomach forced him to start eating the food he had stashed.

Food gave him the energy to stay awake longer, but staying awake didn't solve anything. He couldn't stay here forever—he knew that eventually, someone would check the Warehouse databases and find the trail he had buried or the system running the house would need to update which would likely alert its creator of another copy being active. Harry just couldn't summon the energy to do more than pack a few provisions in his messenger bag and try to find a way of existing that didn't constantly remind him that Artie was gone.

The attack came when Harry least expected it. In his mind, he always thought that when someone came for him, they would do so at night. It was full day when Harry felt the prickle of danger settle over him. A glance out the window showed a single man walking up the front walk without any worry about being seen. That thought worried Harry—if the man had no fear of being seen, that meant he didn't fear any reprisal from anyone. What notched that worry up to fear was the way the man was dressed.

He wore a robe.

Harry tried to pop away but he bounced against some kind of shield. The fear turned to panic. This was _bad, bad, bad_. He had thought they would never be able to find him again. He had thought that in America he only had to worry about alphas or Warehouse staff. He couldn't go back to the Dursleys—Artie wouldn't want that, not when he had fought so hard for Mrs. Frederic to take him from them and then had gotten him out of England. He couldn't handle going back, not after having Artie for so long. This was _bad, bad, bad, bad_.

The man didn't bother with knocking—and he must have had something that let him unlock doors with any keys. Of course he did; the robe-wearers had similar abilities to himself and Harry could make locks pointless with less effort than it took to pop places. The only obstacle would have been if the lock was electronic. The energy convergence would have shorted out the lock.

Harry backed himself into a nook between the couch and the wall, thinking hard about being invisible and unimportant. He felt the AI that controlled the household security shifting its attention around like the Warehouse always did when he got upset. It distracted him only slightly as the man entered the room. The invader sneered down his hooked nose at the furnishings of the small house before striding back into the hall. Just as Harry contemplated whether he would be able to grab his messenger bag from the bedroom, his invader stormed back into the room.

"Potter, I know that you are here," the man threatened. His black eyes glared around the space. "You might as well come out from wherever it is you're hiding. This little act of yours has gone on quite long enough." Harry shivered as the man's scowl shifted into a smirk. ' _Bad, bad, bad, bad.'_ "Very well. You've forced my hand, Potter. Be the consequences on your head. _Finite._ "

From there, things went from merely bad to worse quickly.

-= LP =-

"Artie, _please_!" Leena begged. Artie had long since lost count of how many times she had done so in the last two weeks. She would nag him about sleeping or eating or bathing or doing anything other than searching for Harry. It wasn't as if he had only been doing that—just _mostly_ only that. There was a whole list of things he had accomplished to make up for still searching for Harry. Leena apparently also missed the number of times that Pete had left bowls of things like chicken chunks, cheese, and grapes or shoved some weird concoction similar to a milkshake at him or how Myka and Claudia would tag-team him out of the Hub every couple of days. "Please, Artie, you need to relax! Your aura—"

"I will _relax_ when Harry is back where he's supposed to be," Artie snapped. He slammed his hands down on his desk. He fought the urge to shove the mountains of paperwork to the floor. No matter how much it would help vent his frustration, he would have to clean up the mess afterwards, which would take time away from attempting to track someone who clearly did not want to be found and was being aided by the very apparatus being used to do the searching. Leena's attempts at interfering with that were just one more frustrating thing, and more frustrating than wading through research on the flora and fauna of Antarctica. If he read one more factoid about penguins, he was going to murder someone.

He couldn't arrange for the innkeeper to go to CERN like he had for Joshua who was probably settling back into his research which had been derailed when he had suddenly become saddled with a seven-year-old. Artie could sympathize the distraction of suddenly having a kid underfoot. Claudia was probably more of a handful than Harry. Harry's only _misbehavior_ wasn't really his. Things just had a habit of going into the weird range around him—artifacts reacting unpredictably or things turning into artifacts unexpectedly. Who knew what was going on with the kid? He could be anywhere—he could be starving or cold. Harry hated being cold and it had taken so many months for Harry to stop looking like a skeleton when he first arrived. Or even worse: Harry could have found an artifact that reacted with his distress and fear. He could be _hurt_ and would they even know about it in time to help? Or he could be suffering an even worse fate than death. _His_ aura looked like shit? Well, that's just too bad. Harry was more important.

The ping system was also malfunctioning or at least it looked that way to Artie. A series of pings had been zigzagging its way across the country, hitting the cities that were known for heavy artifact presences. If the random notifications from the Warehouse weren't worrisome enough, the major tabloids all had articles talking about people in medieval-style robes appearing out of nowhere in random cities. The most prominent recurring figure was a man in black robes with a large, hooked nose who seemed to be particularly violent. The day before yesterday he had engaged a group of alphas in Chicago and had nearly leveled a neighborhood before disappearing again. The disappearing act was not nearly as quiet as what Mrs. Frederic and Harry could do, but it was disconcerting that there were others out there that could perform that trick at all. At least Rheticus had needed an artifact!

"Artie—"

The lights in the room blinked off momentarily while the two computers remained unaffected. Whatever Leena had been about to say dropped on the priority list. Power outages were _bad_ times at the Warehouse. There was clanging coming from the metal steps leading from the Overlook to the Warehouse floor. Artie was already running a systems check when Claudia barged into the room. The power dimmed again before she could reach the secondary computer terminal. Artie glanced over to the fuse box, not really thinking anything of it despite Claudia's taunt when she had hacked the system. Then he couldn't look away from the repeated word which echoed his thoughts. His stomach dropped when the repetitions began to scroll upwards as more of them replaced the ones already there.

"Artie? Is that…" Leena whispered. Artie carefully moved around his desk to the panel to examine it more closely. Many of the lights were no longer lit up despite the connected fuse still being solid, forming the letters. Just as Harry rarely instigated the trouble that surrounded him was an inverse of Claudia's active attitude, the warning was inversed from Claudia's taunt, unlit against a fully lit background. Claudia's lightning-paced typing was the only sound as Artie raised one hand as if to touch the repeated word now displayed.

"Finally!" Claudia declared before snatching a pen and notepad. "My program has finished backtracking the little monster. Kid wasn't terrible smart. He's still in Univille—you know what? Delete what I said. That's totally smart. No way we'd look there, and it's still close enough that he'd be able to connect to the Warehouse with that funky synergy he has. What the hell is Smart House?"

"It's a Global Dynamics program for artificial intelligence," Artie answered automatically, most of his focus on the dull letters before him. His mind was already racing through possible scenarios that included the autonomous AI and Harry's involuntary effect on things in his immediate surroundings while under duress. "It was developed by Dr. Douglas Fargo a few years ago and has seen successful prototypal implantation in a residence in Eureka, Oregon where GD is headquartered. It's not approved for general usage due to certain _bugs_ and like many inventions from those nuts, is flagged for potential artifact creation."

"Harry downloaded a copy—should we be worried? What am I saying? A potential artifact unsupervised around Harry? I've heard some of the stories— _definitely_ something to worry about." The lights blinked again and Claudia groaned in frustration. "That can't be my app. It's only supposed to do that when it found something and nothing is—OMG! Boss-man, traffic cam in Univille caught Mr. Dark-and-Dangerous from the Chicago incident exiting an alley a block away from Harry's hidey hole."

"Where's the Farnsworth? Pete and Myka are at the B&B. Harry needs help _now_."

Finally, Claudia spun in her chair to look at what held Artie's attention. The repeating pattern of the word _bad_ was horrifying in its implications. Whether it was from the downloaded program or from Harry's connection to the Warehouse, it meant the same thing, especially with the unlocking of Harry's location from the Warehouse's cortex. Claudia dove for the Hub's Farnsworth while Artie took off towards his bag.

Then the power died completely.

-= LP =-

The front door to the little house was standing open when Pete and Myka arrived while one of the front-facing bay windows had been destroyed—blown outward recently judging by the debris that littered the tidy lawn. Myka didn't like the feel of this arrival any more than she had the arrival two weeks ago to find the Warehouse door in the same condition. It echoed the feeling of _too late_ that had haunted her since Sam's death in Denver. She was sick of being too late.

A glance at Pete gave her no insight into how he was feeling. For the last three weeks Pete had been _different_ from the joker he had been since their assignment to the Warehouse. Myka knew intellectually that Pete had been a Marine before joining the Secret Service, but normally, Pete acted so much like an overgrown child that she forgot that. Since Harry had done his runner and Artie started his obsessive search, Pete had taken charge of things far more completely than she had ever seen him. Pete was the only one who could get Artie to eat or drink—and Myka couldn't figure out why that worked because all he did was put bowls of food on Artie's desk or press protein shakes into his hand. That didn't work when Leena tried and Myka never dared after the first few days because her presence seemed to intensify Artie's agitation. Claudia spent most of her time retracing Harry's interactions with artifacts and the Warehouse, leaving Pete to keep the Warehouse's directive running while the senior agent focused single-mindedly on his missing ward. Myka wasn't the type to take orders—which had caused all kinds of issues between Pete and her on missions—but things being how they were currently, it was a lot easier to just let Pete lead. So far, it had all worked out—despite all her issues with him, Pete did know his logistics. At this moment, there was a stoniness to his face that worried her, a grimness. Maybe she wasn't the only one sick of being _too late_.

They went in with their guns drawn again. Leena didn't have much intel for them on what to expect. Myka would have preferred to question Artie or Claudia directly, but apparently the power grid for the Warehouse went down right as a message came through about Harry's status and Claudia's hunt uncovered the address. It seemed like every artifact in the building was reacting—which considering the unexpected proximity of Harry to the Warehouse, and the suspected distress, wasn't really surprising. Part of the safety brief upon their reassignment had included the information that artifacts of all sorts were easily triggered by Harry's presence and emotional state. The boy was artifact-nip and the reactions were just as varied as cats to catnip.

The front room looked like an explosion had occurred—no. Her eyes traced the multiple damage patterns. _Explosions_. From some type of ray or beam—and at least two different sources and three kinds, judging by the differences in the patterns. They had fought— _viciously_. In addition to the explosions, there were the occasional gouge in things like a really sharp whip had been used. She followed the trail of violence through the room to what appeared to be a study and then to a hallway leading to a bedroom, which is where they found a person, just not the one they were hoping to find.

The woman stared at them with an older version of Harry's emerald eyes, focusing solely on Myka instead of Pete after her initial glance. The eye color was at odds with the dark golden brown of her skin and the odd purplish black of her hair. That particular shade of purple nagged at Myka like she should recognize it. The woman wore a loose chiton which was that grayish-pink color people typically called _rose_. A simple pattern of white apple blossoms amid sage-colored ivy danced across every edge on the tunic-like dress. Each blossom had a rich pinkish-red center. Myka stared back at her down the sight of her Browning, barely noting that the woman didn't seem to blink like a normal person.

By her side, Pete lowered his weapon before holstering it. Carefully, he moved forward, his hands outstretched to his sides in reassuring surrender. The woman flickered like an interrupted television signal before re-solidifying. She then blinked for the first time, her eyes briefly turning the blue that terrified computer owners everywhere. Recognizing that whatever this entity was, bullets most likely wouldn't matter, Myka followed her partner's example in holstering her weapon.

"Hey, there, we don't mean you any harm. We're looking for someone. Do you know what happened here?" Pete questioned gently. He slid around the edge of room to pick up something from the foot of the bed. Myka's mouth went dry at the sight of Harry's messenger bag. Pete looked through it briefly before dropping it on the bed with a frown.

"Authorization code, please," the image replied flatly. The woman stared at Pete in expectation. Pete looked helplessly at Myka, all the confidence he had been using to keep things running smoothly the last few weeks seeming to fall away with Harry's abandoned bag. As the seconds ticked by, the woman's frown grew.

"We don't actually have a code," Myka said and the woman shifted her attention from following Pete with her eyes to staring at Myka again. Myka swallowed. "We're friends of Harry. That's who we're looking for. Do you know Harry?"

"Harry James Potter, born July 31, 2000," the woman replied. The flatness grew fainter as she warmed to her topic. "Last known guardian: Arthur Michael Nielsen, born Artyom Malkiel Weisfelt on July 2, 1948." The woman tilted her head as she continued to stare at Myka. The intense focus was disconcerting but at least the woman wasn't frowning anymore. When she continued, her tone was just barely off of a normal tone. "You are Myka Ophelia Bering, born September 29, 1978. Currently an artifact retrieval agent specializing in semantics and puzzles, formerly of the Secret Service of the United States of America. _He_ is Peter Conrad Lattimer, born June 6, 1980. Currently an artifact retrieval agent specializing in logistics and predictive analysis, formerly Secret Service of the United States of America and First Sergeant of the US Marine Corps. Paragenetic ability: precognition, gamma level. My Harry has you both classified as Threat Level Yellow."

"We don't want to hurt Harry," Myka hurried to mention, taking a step forward with her hands outstretched. Pushing aside the tension at the idea of classified information being accessible by unknown entities was not an easy task but it was a necessary one. The woman flickered again, before rematerializing further away from both of them. The bed now separated them, an oddly defensive move for a nonphysical entity. It reminded her of how skittish Harry had been in those last few minutes before he had left. "We just want to bring him home. We want him safe. Do you know where he is?"

"Authorization code required." The tone was more demanding this time, despite still falling slightly flat.

"How about a different tactic?" Pete tried as he backed away a few steps from the bed now serving as protective barrier. "What's _your_ name?"

"I do not currently have a designation of my own." The woman tilted her head again, examining Pete with that unblinking stare. "I have never had the ability to manifest in this way, so no one has ever given me one since my Aléxandros died." She then stared at the wall beyond Pete. Her eyes turned that deep blue again while orange symbols flashed too quickly for Myka to follow. A moment later, she refocused on her audience with eyes returned to Harry's shade of green. "You may call me _Melora_. Your authorization code, please."

"Melora, we don't have an authorization code."

"I do not understand," Melora countered. She leveled her gaze at them and blinked slowly at them. Myka barely held back returning it, something that Pete apparently did not as Melora immediately focused completely upon the other agent. "Authorization code accepted. The information provided does not compute. Current status of Warehouse agents does not reflect the current users of my Cortex. Who is my Custodian?"

Myka exchanged a look with Pete before reaching for the Farnsworth. This was definitely an Artie level problem. He was probably better equipped to get information from what Myka was half-certain was an avatar of the Warehouse—which meant that Harry had somehow created an artifact of his own before going missing _again_.

-= LP =-

"I do not understand," Melora declared after Myka announced that Artie was on his way with Mrs. Frederic. Pete hadn't stopped watching her since he had entered the room and now she was watching him right back instead of focusing of Myka. The not-blinking thing was seriously creepy, but considering that no matter how life-like Melora seemed, she was still just a hologram, he guessed it made sense. Right now, she looked so much like Harry in her confusion that his heart ached. "According to File Update on September 19, 2009 by Harry James Potter, Custodian Arthur Michael Nielsen was lost September 18 in an attempt to retrieve a Rheticus Compass alongside potential Caretaker Claudia Anne Donovan. This incident raised the potentiality of conscription of Harry James Potter into an alpha program from 56% to 92% and the potentiality of relocation to foster system from 15% to 67%, necessitating his preventative actions. Information does not compute with status update provided by Agent Myka Ophelia Bering. Clarification required."

"Well, Melora, it's like this: Artie wasn't lost," Pete said, receiving a blink in return. Worry grew on the avatar's face as he continued. "Artie showed back up with both Donovans not five minutes after Harry took off. We've been looking for him ever since."

"Confirmation required."

"I'll confirm it," Artie announced as he marched into the room with Mrs. Frederic behind him. The slightly rotund man stopped in front of the flickering purple-haired woman and spread his arms wide. "Go ahead and scan me for signs of artifact use. I am Arthur Nielsen and I am very much alive and in this dimension."

"Confirmed. You are Arthur Michael Nielsen, born Artyom Malkiel Weisfelt on July 2, 1948. Formerly freelance artifact and information retrieval specialist before conscription to the Warehouse in 1974 as artifact retrieval agent; Custodian from 1992 to 2009 when lost in retrieval of a Rheticus Compass. Official status listed as Missing in Action on September 19, 2009 by Harry James Potter. Status update necessary to retract status update of Custodian. Authorization code required." Before anyone could question the spill of information, Melora turned towards Mrs. Frederic. "Irene Frederic born Spring 1867. Caretaker in lieu of Jolene Frederic since 1914. My Harry has you listed as Threat Level Orange."

"I assure you that I would never allow Harry to conscripted into anything," Mrs. Frederic replied, looking as scarily stoic as always, "nor would I allow him to be placed into foster care or protective care that would leave him vulnerable to such conscription. Right now, though, we need to find him, especially if he's hurt. Agent Bering, how long has it been since you and Agent Lattimer were sent here?"

"Forty-six minutes," Myka dutifully supplied without missing a beat. Even knowing that it was an extension of her freaky attention to details thing, Pete had the inkling that he would never _not_ find her perfect sense of time as unnerving as it was slightly hot. Was it possible to distract her even? The possibility was interesting even if he was fairly certain that Myka would hit him if he ever voiced the thought. "We arrived twelve minutes later and the only…only Melora was here."

"Melora, we received a message that makes us think that Harry is in danger," Mrs. Frederic continued. "We need you to tell us what happened here and where Harry currently is."

"Authorization code, please," Melora replied, sounding vaguely smug at thwarting them. Myka made that half-growl, half-grunt noise she always makes when Pete's reaching the end of her patience. It was just as cute as when he inspired it, too, but Melora probably didn't agree with him if the uncertain way she was examining his partner meant anything. Mrs. Frederic appeared just as confused. Pete didn't even know what he had done earlier that got the hologram to tell him anything—all he had done was blink back at her. Artie heaved a deep sigh.

"Melora, look at me," Artie commanded. The holographic woman obeyed. After a moment, she gave another slow blink before giving Artie a grin that was blatantly _Harry_ at his most carefree. Pete's mouth had a sour taste in it, kind of like waking up the morning after a bender that included tequila.

"Authorization code accepted. Status update complete. It is good to see you, Custodian."

"I don't understand," Myka interjected. "All you did was blink at her. How is that an authorization code?"

"I think I get it," Pete said. He couldn't help but squirm under the pointed gazes of two of the scariest women he had ever met outside of his mother and his ex-wife. Artie waved a hand impatiently for him to finish the explanation. "It's a habit of Harry's—he blinks at people and he'd get really happy when you return it. It's what I did to get him to accept the scones. I don't know why it's important to him, but it must be, right? And since Melora was probably created by Harry and artifacts take on traits of their creators…"

"Cat-blinks," Artie commented as he rubbed his chest absently. An insistent buzzing had the older agent frantically searching his pockets. The meaning of Harry using cat-blinks to determine trust levels hit Pete like a hammer to the head. Even as touching as it was, the idea made the kid's absence hurt worse than ever. Artie finally pulled out his Farnsworth. "Claudia, what is going on? Has the Warehouse settled down any since we've got here?"

"Yeah, boss-man, but there's still random surges in places with terrifying names—But that's not why I'm calling. There was some major pingage going on in the city of brotherly love about the time of our blackout. I'm talkin' artifacts popping up all _over_ the place, but the intensity was centered on Temple University. The surge lasted for about fifteen minutes before trailing off—again, ending with pings on the campus itself. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm smelling fudge."

"Yeah, chocolatey goodness there," Pete commented, "and the time is just as suspicious. Do you think it was an orchestrated attack on the Warehouse? Or something related to the attack on Harry?"

"I think it's Harry-related," Claudia announced over the sound of her typing. "It's all grainy and gray, but a security feed shows the kid popping into existence next to the music hall at the nearly-exact timestamp as the outage. Does Har-bear have a problem with seizures?"

"The robe-wearer made my Harry shake," Melora interrupted. Pete snapped his gaze to her. The avatar's veneer of emotionless impassivity had finally been broken and she was wringing her hands. "He was in so much pain—I had to send him somewhere safe."

"And you thought _there_ was safe?" Artie asked incredulously. "I've been searching for him for two weeks and you can't be bothered to send him _home_ —oh, no, you just had to send him _there_."

"What's at Temple University?" Pete asked even as Myka corrected Artie's time. Artie blinked at her in confusion. The mixup confirmed what Pete had suspected about the senior agent's awareness while he had fought with the Warehouse systems for any scrap of information on Harry's potential whereabouts. Pete clicked his tongue, drawing Artie's attention away from growing panic that was evident on the older man's face. As further distraction, he repeated his question. "Artie, what's at Temple University?"

"I can answer that," Claudia chirped from the Farnsworth. "Professor Isadore Weisfelt teaches piano in the music hall—incidentally, in the very room whose window our missing brat appeared under. The good professor looks eerily similar to our resident creaker who has the listed alias of Arthur Weisfelt among a slew of others because it seems that he spent years being a naughty boy. Now, I know we've been a bit busy, but has anyone else heard Artie mention his father—who's got to be absolutely ancient because Artie is such a relic himself?"

"We don't have time for this," Artie protested. Myka looked like she was going to protest—Pete knew that incomplete intel had to bug her on multiple levels—but Artie was already rushing onward. "We need to retrieve Harry before he runs again or gets found by this 'robe-wearer' who is apparently hunting him. You sent him there." Artie jabbed an accusing finger at Melora. "So, bring him back. _Now_."

"I cannot," Melora replied, emotion beginning to leak into her voice. "I used his own abilities to send him away using my power. I cannot access those without him or an equitable artifact, not even for my Custodian."

"Hey, Claud?" Pete asked, cutting off what looked like it would have been a very angry rant from Artie. "We still have the Rheticus Compass in inventory, right?"

"Like I would let it disappear after all the trouble it caused," Claudia quipped.

Pete looked between Artie and Melora. The latter was bouncing in place with her fingers interwoven under her chin. Pete couldn't help smiling at the similarity to Harry whenever Leena had to make a trip to the Spiral with a new artifact to sort. Artie pushed his glasses up into his hair before pressing both his palms into his eyes. He then made a noise that ripped out whatever bit of hope that had seeded in Pete's heart. The vibe hit with the force of a speeding truck, leaving him gasping.

"That's…not good," Myka announced carefully. Her eyes moved around the room, evaluating everything as always. Pete's stomach clenched threateningly. Artie made his wounded sound again. Mrs. Fredric looked like she was carved from marble, nowhere near the tears she had shed once for Harry. The Farnsworth released a crackle of static before Claudia's voice rose tinnily from it.

"I guess I can rig up a more complete version of what works with it," Claudia offered with uncharacteristic hesitance, "but the kid said—I mean, would that be safe? Really wouldn't want to trap anyone in another interdimensional pocket considering how that made the brat do his runner in the first place."

"No," Artie interrupted, choking on the words, "you can't. The Stockholm Treaty—"

"The what-now?"

"They'd take the Warehouse." Mrs. Frederic waited until all eyes were on her before continuing. "It was the guarantee that the Regents put up as collateral for their compliance. The Warehouse crosses international borders and had the greatest opportunity to defy the Treaty; they had to offer something worth the same value."

"I do not understand," Melora stated, all her previous enthusiasm bleeding away as confusion took over. Tension rippled the muscles of Pete's shoulders. Whatever was coming was _bad_ and would be happening in the next few moments. "How can the Regents promise something that is not _theirs_?"

Oh, yeah—definitely _bad_.

-= LP =-

Harry had originally just thought that the man meant to return him to England and the Dursleys, but towards the end of their short battle, it had become clear that he just wanted Harry _dead_. Judging by what it did to the furniture and the walls, that purple energy whip would have sliced Harry to chunks if it hadn't been for his necklace. Instead it just made Harry wish he had been killed. It had hurt a lot more than Uncle Vernon's punishments or even Aunt Petunia's experiments ever had. Whatever it was paled in comparison to whatever the man's last spell had been. It had felt like millions of tiny flames licking at all his nerve endings, like it would consume him and keep him alive for centuries just to feast upon him.

In between the realization of the pain and drawing the breath to scream, Harry had felt something like flames but thick like mud move within him. Next he knew he was simply _away_ and the feel of the Warehouse was only the vaguest whisper in the back of his head. He knew that he had gone further than he normally did on his own, and he had the sense of the direction he was from the Warehouse. He had officially left the only home he had known. All he wanted to do was break down again, but it would have to be _later_ when he had shelter or safety.

It had taken a long while for the shaking of his limbs slowed enough for him to manipulate them again. Until then, he laid beneath an open window and listened as someone played a piano like the one back at the Warehouse. Harry had almost cried as he remembered how Artie had corrected his fingering—so many freaking times there at the beginning—or how he would seek out Artie after a nightmare and find him at the piano, playing his sorrow. Artie wouldn't be playing any more sad songs, would he? That's a good thing, right?

Most of all, he just wanted it all to _stop_. Everything was just too much. He hadn't realized it, but he had gotten used to warmth and comfort and eating regularly. He wanted to go _home_ —to Leena and the B&B, yes, but also the Warehouse and _Artie_. Harry curled tighter into a ball. He let himself drift in the music, a comforting reminder of the home he had lost.

The music halted abruptly in a tangled chord of closely placed keys. Half asleep now, Harry barely twitched at the discordant sound. A voice—both familiar and not—grumbled a complaint at being interrupted. Then a snort-like sound—like Artie's annoyed and disbelieving sound of dismissal—cut through a quieter speaker's voice.

"What do you know?" said the not-unfamiliar voice just a few feet above him. "There is a boy laying in the bushes like a putz. You there!" Harry struggled away from the edge of sleep enough to uncurl to look at the man now halfway out the window. He immediately scrubbed at his eyes, certain that his wishes were affecting what he was seeing. The man made an annoyed snort—and Harry had no problem identifying it as Artie's indicator of impatience. "Yes, _you_. Where is your mother? Or father? The shmendrik who is supposed to be in charge of you and has let you wander off to sleep in bushes?"

"Kaput," Harry replied, both taking a risk that the man would understand and because the word fit best the fate of Artie. He still couldn't stop staring at the man's face, drinking in the similarities to what Artie probably would have looked like some day if he had survived. It was his understanding of Artie's expressions that allowed him to see how the man was both happy and saddened at the status given.

"He speaks! Come inside, and we'll find something to do with you. Can't very well leave you in the bushes to join them, can we?."

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was pathetic. Maybe it was just because the man reminded Harry so much of Artie. In the end, all that mattered was that Harry obeyed.

-= LP =-

"All I'm saying is she has a freakin' point," Claudia groused into the Farnsworth. She had left it propped up on the stand Artie kept near his primary screen as she worked through layers of firewalls and encryptions. If she was going to bend the rules instead of outright breaking them, she first needed the exact wording of the rules. Fortunately, the argument between everyone kept anyone from staring too closely at the tiny and ridiculously low-res screen in the communicator. Thus she could hack in relative peace so long as she threw out the occasional comment to stir the pot.

God, old people were easy to manipulate. Well, that's unfair. Artie definitely had some mad skills. He wasn't as good as her, of course, but then really, who was? The kid was good, though. Not all of the delay in tracking his path had been the system actively resisting her worm. Harry had an understated flair that made his coding into fecking art and that's not an euphemism either. Claudia only vaguely recognized the patterns he was using but she was fairly certain one of the languages had color hex-dex as its base. It was all organic and beautiful and so flippin' complicated that she couldn't make heads or tails of it and she was _fucking_ _great_ at what she does. Eventually, she had to create a translation matrix to give her worm guidance. She could have manually done it—you know, given enough time because she's awesome like that—but Artie needed the brat back, like, _yesterday_. Dude's not a young pup anymore and going days without sleeping couldn't be good for him. If it weren't for Pete, Artie probably would have starved by now. Heh, if he passed out, maybe then he'd sleep.

"You need an access code to proceed beyond this point."

"Jesus Christ on a Cracker!" Claudia screeched as she tumbled off the computer stool she had pulled over from the secondary terminal to Artie's desk. The floor of the Hub was a lot harder than it had any right to be. Note to self, don't spin and jerk at the same time. Dear God, _ow_.

"That is not a valid access code." The woman peered over Artie's monitors at her. The first thing Claudia noticed was the eyes—she had only seen eyes that vivid a green on one person and it would take heavy medication them not haunt her sleep. The next was the hair which totally would have been normal except it was dark purple like—oh! Like the neutralizer goo! A pyrite-colored hand snapped the Farnsworth closed on Artie's demands for information.

"Melora?"

"That is the designation I have chosen. You are Claudia Donovan. I have more information, but Bering appeared discomforted by my revealing it. My Harry mentioned you."

"Uh, yeah, you probably should take that with, like, a bucket of salt because I really didn't make the best first impression."

"You broke into me and stole my Custodian."

"Well, when you put it like _that_ , of course it sounds _bad_."

"I am very angry with you, Claudia, very, _very_ angry."

She was so dead. She was alone in an impossible-to-calculate-how-large warehouse full of volatile madcap which can react to said warehouse's whims and that very same warehouse had just declared that it was pissed with her. She had kind of always figured that tech would get her killed, but she never imagined that it would be the tech itself that killed her. The irony may kill her before the building did.

"However, at the moment, my anger with my staff is greater. So I am prepared to offer you deal. Bring my Harry back _now_ and I will forgive your previous foolishness. You have the right to refuse, of course, and because I'm generous, I will even give you time to vacate before I leave."

"Harry said the compass was dangerous."

"It is when you don't know how to use it. All my collection is. Power has a price, after all. You cannot gain something without giving something up."

"Like alchemy? Equivalent exchange."

"Rarely so equitable. It would take hundreds of lives to grant immortality to a single one—210 to be exact. One of my Caretakers did the math."

"Did the _math_? What the holy fucking hell?"

"Interesting turn of phrase," Melora commented drily. "Is that another attempt at an access code? Because it is also not valid currently. I must say that I enjoy this game. I can see why Harry prefers it." She was staring now—like stalker-creepy staring. Then she blinked _really_ slowly. Unable to stop herself, Claudia returned the blink, earning a wide grin as a reward. "Excellent! Now, to bring back my Harry, we will need the blue blanket from Artie's couch. If you so much as reach for a Tesla, the next thing you'll touch is the Antarctic Shelf. Got it?"

"That is an oddly specific threat," Claudia replied, already heading to the suite's hidden door. "Also, why the blanket?"

"I can't go and I'm not sending my absolutely idiotic Custodian," Melora replied as she followed Claudia into Artie's rooms. The blanket in question was a woven throw. The raised pattern of the weave gave the thing a natty texture and there didn't seem to be any pattern to how the coloration was spread out, like someone had been using whatever skeins of blue they could reach easily and just used whatever came to hand. Black and forest green fringe bordered the mess. "And frankly, I don't think my Harry will believe you, despite it being _you_. The blanket is bait and bribe, a sign of your honesty, such as it is."

"Okay, one blanket in possession. What else do we need?"

"Nothing," Melora chirped in reply before continuing. "Now I do not know how long it will be before the others get there, but it is imperative that you protect my Harry and if no one has arrived by tomorrow, make your way back here _with him_. Show up without my Harry and you will not enjoy my revenge."

"Wait a bloomin' minute—what do you mean _nothing_? They just spent a half hour arguing over whether to even try—"

"And I got tired of them being idiots, clearly. My Aléxandros gave me life over 2,355 years ago and they have no right to feel as if they can order me about as if I were an object. I have put up with it for too long and _none_ of them are worth my Harry, not even my Caretaker. Do you understand, Claudia?"

"Um, bring back Harry or die trying?"

"You may make a decent Caretaker yet."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Toodles!"

"WAIT!"

-= LP =-

Harry hovered in the doorway of the teacher's apartment, uncertain about entering the space. The man from before was making an attempt to straighten up the space as much as possible in a single circuit of the room. He had snapped a dismissal at the student who had pointed out Harry and the kid clearly had less guts than Pete or Myka because he scurried away like dogs were chasing him. The snapping and grumbling was so much like Artie that Harry wanted to cry again.

"Don't lurk in the doorway. It's rude."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered quickly. He moved to hover by the overstuffed sofa instead. The man looked at him with a frown and squinty eyes. Then he gave a sharp nod before moving to the adjoining kitchen. Harry twitched—Artie hated it and Mr. Weisfelt was a lot like Artie even down to having the same _name_ that Artie had before joining the Warehouse, not that Harry was supposed to know _that_. He twitched again. Mr. Weisfelt looked like he would take a while doing whatever it was that had taken him to the kitchen. Maybe he wouldn't mind? The third time he twitched, Harry just gave in to the impulse.

Harry was good at figuring out where things went without being told. Aunt Petunia didn't like being asked a lot of questions so that skill had seen a lot of use before Artie had saved him. Mr. Weisfelt seemed to have the same system that Artie preferred for the apartment which made it even easier. The urge to cry fell away as Harry started to clean. This was something he could do. It didn't take thought or planning. It just took doing.

"Are you ready to eat now?" the man asked after a while.

Harry barely caught the book he had been about to slide onto the shelf when he jerked back to full awareness. He blinked, confused for a moment. Finishing with the book, he stepped back and clasped his hands together. Mr. Weisfelt didn't look _mad_ but he did have that pinched look that Artie sometimes got when Harry did something that he had learned at the Dursleys. When Mr. Weisfelt pointed to a spot at the small table with a plate and cup in front of it, Harry immediately obeyed the silent command. He hesitated to reach for the simple sandwich, old habits die hard and all that. The man opposite of him only raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. Harry picked up the sandwich and began to eat.

"So," Mr. Weisfelt said, drawing out the single syllable as if to fill space. "No parents?"

"Not for a long time, sir," Harry answered honestly after swallowing his mouthful. "They died when I was a baby."

"And then?"

"I stayed with my aunt and uncle until—" Harry bit off the explanation. All air seemed to disappear for a moment before he could get another lungful to finish the story. Mr. Weisfelt waited for him. "Then I came here to stay with Artie, but he…"

"And the bushes?"

"They're just so comfy, you see. I think everyone will be using them soon."

"You're a yungatsh, aren't you?" Mr. Weisfelt clicked his tongue when Harry ducked his head. "None of that. Guts and sass are sometimes the only things to keep a man going when times get tough. So this Artie kicked you out?"

"No," Harry whispered. Mr. Weisfelt made a vaguely sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. Harry fought the urge to fidget with his plate. A sudden shout had Harry jumping again, this time to his feet and to between the open space of the apartment and Mr. Weisfelt.

"I don't know you are, but it is very rude to appear in the middle of someone's living room without warning."

The young woman just blinked at them, clutching the blanket in her hands to her chest. Even Harry had to admit that Mr. Weisfelt's nonchalance about her sudden appearance was a bit odd. It would have been nice to have confirmation that his words and tone matched his expression, but Harry didn't dare turn to examine his face, not when he finally recognized the woman. Claudia Donovan seemed to be having trouble deciding which one to stare at more.

"What—how—No, I'm going to go with _what_ for now," Harry growled. "What are you doing here, Donovan?"

"Well, that's a bit of a long story, squirt, but it's a doozy, lemme tell ya."

"Aren't you full of those? Always a story—always a reason, but always lacking logic."

"Look, I know that I was a bit of an idiot—"

"A _bit_? You got Artie—"

"Look, he's not—"

"I don't want to talk to you! You're nothin' but a lying berk!"

"Now see here, you little brat, I don't care if you want to talk to me or anything else. I have a warehouse threatening to kill me or send me to Antarctica if I don't bring you back—not to mention what Artie will do to me if I have managed to finally find your freakish little hide and didn't drag you back."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

"FINE!" Claudia yelled at a matching volume. They glared at each other, panting like they had been running. Then Claudia shoved the blanket at him. "Your stupid Warehouse told me to bring this to you because she felt that you wouldn't believe me."

"She isn't stupid," Harry argued, refusing to touch the achingly familiar blanket. He crossed his arms to keep from reaching for it. "You're stupid. She's thousands of years old, you know. Two thousand—"

"Two thousand three hundred and fifty-five years old and she shouldn't be underestimated or ordered about as if she's an object," Claudia interrupted. "She's already given me this lecture. Now, I don't know why this ratty thing is so important but on pain of freezing my ass off, I'm supposed to give it to you."

"And I'm supposed to believe you? Just like that?"

"Apparently just like that," Claudia agreed. She wiggled the blanket as if reminding Harry that it was brought just for him. He wanted to take it. More than wanting the familiar texture and warmth, he wanted the energy-scent that was sure to still cling to it and everything that it could possibly represent, given that Claudia was presently holding it.

On the other hand, there were artifacts that allowed others to change their appearance and shapeshifting was a documented alpha ability, even before considering what little Harry had been able to figure out about the robe-wearers' capabilities before Artie rescued him. Mrs. Frederic was the only non-robe-wearer that Harry had ever seen doing the popping ability and Claudia had _definitely_ popped into Mr. Weisfelt's apartment.

"Well, since you're obviously not going to leave," Mr. Weisfelt grumbled, "you might as well have a sandwich. Has feeding children gone out of fashion now? You're nearly as skinny as Harry here."

"Hey, I'm not a kid, I'll have ya know. I'm old enough to drink and everything."

Mr. Weisfelt grunted at Claudia's protest, already stomping into his tiny kitchen. She stomped after him to continue her argument. As she passed Harry, she shoved the blanket into his arms. He had to wrap his arms around it or risk dropping it. The wisp of a scent puffed over him and Harry couldn't stop himself from burying his nose in the textured folds. Chamomile and mint had never meant so much to him. Even better was the scent couldn't be older than just a few hours. His eyes prickled again. _Artie_.

"We showed up five minutes after you had left, you know," Claudia whispered beside him. He looked at her blurry figure. She had to be sitting on his chair to match his height, but he couldn't find it in himself to be upset at having his seat stolen. "Artie has been really worried. He hasn't been sleeping for longer than a few hours at a time and only when he passes out. Pete's the only one who can get him to eat or drink anything. Myka's been binging on the cookies that Leena's been stress-baking and those things are horrible, like she leaves out half the sugar—"

"She does," Harry interrupted in a wobbly voice. "Because she knows that I don't like things too sweet. She started cutting the sugar down in her recipes after—" He hiccupped on the words. ' _After I panicked over a cupcake_.' If Leena was still cutting the sugar in her cookies, maybe she wasn't mad about how Harry left Room Five? He scrubbed at his eyes with the blanket. The smell filled him again. When he spoke, the fabric muffled the words. "Is she mad at me?"

"Probably a little, yeah," Claudia said, making Harry freeze. "Everyone's kind of tense about you running away and Leena's been staring at Artie like he's dying—which I don't blame her. The old man has been starting to look like shit even to my eyes. I can't imagine how his aura looks. I don't fully understand the mumbo-jumbo that goes on with you guys, but I do know what it looks like when you're hopelessly watching someone you care for slowly kill themselves. Been there, done that, got the fucking tee shirt to prove it. Leena's a sweetie, but yeah, I think she'll be a bit upset with you over this."

"But not—"

"Not what? Not you rushing into a dangerous situation to save Artie? Oh, I think Artie's already got plans for that—he mutters to himself or maybe you, I never could tell which. I think you're gonna be grounded until Artie dies for real and there was something about permanent flushing duty? Don't know what that's about and I'm not certain I want to know."

"Leena said I'm not allowed to flush the tubes because the first time I got baptized and got stained for a month. Neutralizer isn't supposed to stain and the artifacts were extra touchy for that entire month. The inn kept rearranging itself whenever I would visit."

"Wait—is the B&B alive, too? Because one building wanting to kill is more than enough."

"You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"Don't insult your ride home, pipsqueak."

A knock sounded on the door. The three occupants shared a look before Mr. Weisfelt threw up his hands and proceeded to shuffle his way to his door. His resemblance to Artie didn't hurt as much with Harry's new understanding. When the door swung open to reveal Pete and Myka, Harry knew the gig was probably up.

"Professor Isadore Weisfelt? I'm Agent Pete Lattimer and this is Agent Myka Bering. May we have a few moments of your time?"

"Sure, fine, this is turning into a right party," Mr. Weisfelt grumbled. He gave them both a measuring look. "You here about the boy, too? The one from the murderous warehouse and indecisive inn? I'm not surprised that they have secret service protection. You should keep a better eye on your children. Do you know where I found him? Under a bush!"

"So you do still have— _Harry_!"

The room was not small enough to justify how quickly Myka managed to get her arms wrapped around him. Just like it always did, her aura wrapped him in downy softness that smelled of larkspur. He felt the prickly outer edge poke at Pete's familiar restlessness as the Marine tried pull him from Myka before she was ready to let him go. The lovage portion of Pete's scent was so strong that Harry felt his nose tickle with the threat of a sneeze. The distinctive hops was little more than a trace.

"You scared us, man. No more going off on your own—"

"He's not going to have time!" interrupted the best voice in the entire universe.

The two agents backed off of Harry, giving him a clear view of the man now filling the doorway. Standing side by side, Mr. Weisfelt and Artie was undoubtedly related, but Harry couldn't spare more thought than that for the matter. Harry felt his grip on the blanket release as he took a step forward, hardly believing his eyes despite being forewarned. When Artie spread his arms in welcome, Harry didn't hesitate a second more. The pain of the tears just confirmed the reality of the body he was hugging and the arms that surrounded him. Chamomile, so comfortingly like apples, filled the air.

"You're going to have so many chores," Artie breathed into Harry's wild hair. "You're never going to have time to plot something like this ever again, idiot boy. Did you really think Mrs. Frederic would let any of those blasted military types take you? You're part of her bailiwick, and what the Warehouse has, the Warehouse keeps. That includes people! Not that it will matter because I am _never_ going to leave you, not _ever_."

"Promise?" Harry whispered. He hated how weak and wobbly the word sounded, but he wouldn't take it back—not when Artie was _there_ and _real_ and _alive_. Artie just held him tighter and took in a deep breath as if he could breathe in Harry like Harry could everyone else.

"Yes," Artie vowed. "All of it, my little fool. All of it and more. You're stuck with me. And once I get you home, I'll make you regret every stupid day you made me stupidly worry."

"Artie?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Let's go _home_."


End file.
